


Someone Else's Dream

by theroguesgambit



Series: Dreamwalker [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Damaged Derek, Depression, Dreams, Dreamwalking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Nightmares, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Protective Stiles, Suicidal Thoughts, The Divine Move tag, were-jaguar Kate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-01-18 19:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1440661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroguesgambit/pseuds/theroguesgambit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-3B.  Derek has gone missing, and Stiles' dreams might be the only way to save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Echo House

**Author's Note:**

> Based on my idea [HERE](http://angelofashes.tumblr.com/post/80654954693/the-dream-theory).
> 
> What if Derek wasn't the only one dreaming at the end of "The Divine Move"?
> 
> Technically a continuation of [THIS](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1365331) drabble, rewriting 3B dream scene from Stiles' POV.

_He's inside a house – wide, warm, and welcoming – that hangs just on the edge of being familiar._

_How he’d gotten here, why he's here, where the house’s actual occupants are… the questions flit into his mind and out again just as easily as he drifts down a brightly lit hall toward a stairwell._

_Derek stands at the bottom, his hand pressed against a stretch of wall._

_Of course, Stiles realizes distantly. They're at the Hale house._

_“Derek?”_

_The man turns to look up at Stiles, movements sharp, agitated._

_“Stiles, how did you get in here?”_

_And Stiles feels a flash of embarrassment because he really is kind of trespassing here, isn’t he? And he can’t for the life of him remember why he’d decided to break into Derek’s house. But Derek isn’t looking accusing. Just… nervous?_

_Which sparks a whole host of other feelings in Stiles because Derek doesn’t really do nervous that often. The last time he’d seen Derek like this had been… the locker room? Is that right? Wait, when had they been in the locker room together?_

_Derek has turned back to the wall at the base of the stairs, running his hand frantically along the smooth surface._

_“Stiles, where’s the door? There’s supposed to be a door.”_

_Stiles reaches out for the rail, drifts down the staircase._

_“Dude, are you sure? Things like that don’t usually start moving around on you.”_

_But he remembers a door being there, too. Actually, he remembers… something else. Something important. Or almost does, anyway._

_He reaches the main floor just as Derek slams a fist into the wall. Not even denting it. Stiles has seen Derek punch his way through solid concrete; he probably should be able to dent a wall._

_“We can’t get out,” Derek snaps, agitated. “We have to get out. Stiles, she’s coming.”_

_Derek’s nerves are infectious, and Stiles finds himself glancing around the cheery hall for some hidden assailant. And something about this is still wrong, so very wrong, and Stiles can’t pin down what._

_“Who? Derek, who’s coming?”_

_“She’s_ coming _. She’s gonna burn it down, don’t you smell it?”_

_As soon as Derek says it, he can. Smoke. Chokingly thick, acrid. Everywhere. Stiles’ next breath burns his throat and he coughs, arm going to cover his mouth. But as thick as the smell is, the house still looks fine. There isn’t a hint of a fire anywhere._

_Hale house._

_Fire._

_Crap._

_A quick glance down at his own hand confirms what he should’ve known right away._

_“Derek, this… this already happened.”_

_Derek's looking more panicked than Stiles has ever seen him: shaking, skin dead white, eyes darting to Stiles fast and away._

_“What the hell are you talking about?”_

_“The house fire. It already happened, Derek. It happened like seven years ago.”_

_But Derek’s brain is stuck in some kind of frantic loop, breaths coming out sharp and fast._

_“She’s coming…”_

_“She who? Derek, no one’s coming. This isn’t real. That’s why there’s no door. That’s why the house isn’t a cinder block. Are you listening to me?”_

_He obviously isn’t. He's grabbing Stiles' arm and dragging him into the living room – soft looking green couches, flowers on the coffee table – and stopping in front of the window._

_“If there’s no door, we’ll have to make one.”_

_He drops Stiles’ arm, grabs a wooden chair instead, and flings it into the glass. The chair shatters. The window doesn’t._

_Derek stares at the unbroken glass, stunned, until Stiles steps in front of him, grabbing his shoulders. Shaking him (or trying to)._

_“Listen to me; we’ve been through this before. Look at your hands, Derek. None of this is real. I mean… I’m real, and I think maybe you’re real, but this, this whole…”_

_He trails off as Derek’s gaze slides to the hand on his shoulder. His brows crease, and he looks slowly back up toward Stiles. Then his eyes catch on something past him, out the window, and he jerks out of Stiles’ grip, visibly shuddering. His next words come out faint._

_“She’s real too, Stiles. I can’t get out.”_

_Stiles fights the urge to turn, to see what Derek's staring at._

_“Where are you? Really?”_

_“I can’t get out. Stiles, she’s here.”_

_Survival instincts finally override everything, and Stiles spins. In the nightmare black world beyond the glass, Stiles catches a glimpse of a familiar face. Long light hair and gleaming teeth. A flash of movement and then a lithe animal, wreathed in flame, sailing through the glass toward them—_

He wakes up, shouting.

Scott is already standing over him. He’s been staying over for the past few nights, since Stiles had woken up from a bizarre dream and they’d discovered Derek was missing.

“Did it happen again?”

Stiles nods, tense. Trembling.

“What the hell does it mean?”

He can’t get the images out of his head. Derek trapped… trapped somewhere. Scared, helpless. And that... jaguar thing. And that face.

The face must have been some kind of metaphor, like the house, like the fire. Because Kate Argent's long dead. Right?

Scott is crossing his arms, trying to look like a leader, like an Alpha, like he has half a clue how to deal with any of this either.

“It means,” he says finally, “that you’re the one who’s gonna find him.”


	2. Three Dreams

_They’re at the school again, this time in the gym. Derek’s in the middle of the floor, dressed in a black leather jacket and blue jeans, a basketball in his hands. He stares down at it warily, but Stiles has a feeling he’s not counting his fingers._

_It’s all… weird. Derek in the school is weird. Derek holding something as mundane as a basketball: weird. Derek looking at it like it’s an old friend he hasn’t seen in years..._

_When Stiles crosses the floor to stand in front of him, Derek takes too long looking up. His eyes are wide. Startled. Lost._

_“This is where we first met,” he says, with no preamble. Like that’s not a total non sequitur, like it should make perfect sense somehow. And Stiles’ mind darts, tries to recall any time, ever, when he and Derek might have ended up together on the basketball court and comes up blank._

_But Derek’s looking past him, to the stands. Stiles turns, follows his gaze, and winces when his eyes are assaulted by a pair of painfully conflicting images. A young woman, early twenties. Light, curling hair and a daring grin. But no… it’s not a girl; it’s some kind of wildcat. Dark fur and strangely flashing eyes, prowling through the stands._

_He turns back, and now Derek isn’t Derek anymore either. Not the Derek he knows, anyway. Leather jacket and dark jeans gone, face younger, frame smaller. Dressed in a Beacon Hills basketball jersey and clutching the ball with renewed confidence as he stares out after the creature._

_“This is where you met Kate,” Stiles says, and finally Derek looks at him._

_This isn’t the Derek from a few days ago, and that’s not even a jibe at how young he looks suddenly._ That _Derek had been panicked, frantic, trapped within the echo of his own burning house. This Derek is barely coherent, blinking slowly at Stiles like he’s having a hard time even recognizing him._

_And the scene around them is shifting just as dizzily. Echoes of laughter, cheers and clapping. Lights flickering bright and fading out like flashbulbs. Stiles feels himself being jostled by ghost bodies, ghost hands. But all he sees are Derek and Kate, and the prowling jaguar._

_“She just came up to me right here on the court.” And there she is, striding through an imaginary crowd, ducking and bobbing like she owns the room and everything in it. Stiles stumbles out of her path before realizing she doesn’t see him at all. She’s just a memory._

_Except… not quite a memory. She changes as she moves, her face taking on feline aspects, and Stiles is scared for Derek suddenly because she’s looking at him like prey, and Derek isn’t moving. “Everyone was congratulating me,” he says, toneless. Staring. “I’d carried the team all game, everyone knew it. But she just smiled, said she’d see me around. And that was it. That fast. That simple. Everything else fell away. My whole life changed right here.”_

_The echo of Kate steps in front of Derek, stretches an arm out. And Derek doesn’t flinch away, not even from the claws coming out of her fingers, closing over his throat. A second before she touches him, she’s gone._

_The gym goes quiet._

_And Stiles tries to picture it – this teenage Derek standing here in his basketball jersey, lovestruck by a hot twenty-something psychopath who would one day murder nearly everyone he cared about. He swallows._

_“Derek… what you said the other day. About scratches. You can’t seriously mean that… that_ Kate’s alive _. She had a funeral, man. The Argents buried her.”_

_Derek shivers, his hands white on the ball._

_“I buried Peter,” he says._

_Which, yeah, is a fair point._

_And then his eyes dart to Stiles, and he frowns like he’s noticing him for the first time._

_“Stiles. What the hell are you doing here? She’ll find you.”_

_“She can’t find me, Derek. I’m inside your head.”_

_Derek’s lips twist, quick and sarcastic, and Stiles is relieved to see a trace of the guy he knows still in there, beneath the dazed attitude and the seventeen-year-old features._

_“So I’m going crazy? Is that supposed to comfort me?”_

_Stiles smirks right back._

_“If you are, we both are, buddy.”_

_.-_

_Stiles is getting better at recognizing when he’s in a dream. There’s less confusion, now. He catches on quicker._

_Derek’s not coming around as easily._

_“You’re insane.”_

_“_ I’m _in—look, pal. I’m not the one who literally dreamed us into a graveyard.”_

_Stiles is sitting, cross-legged, on a nameless crypt. Derek is drifting amongst the tombstones, trailing his fingers over them as he passes. There’s a cloudy haze over everything that makes it hard to see, like mist or fog but more uniform. Like Derek’s brain just isn’t clear._

_But Derek’s Derek again tonight, all snark and bite. Focused, even if the dream isn’t._

_“I’m not arguing about this with you,” he snaps, hand rubbing his forehead._

_“Derek, dude. Think about it. Why the hell would we be here? You and me, hanging out? In a_ graveyard _? Can you just look at your stupid fingers already?”_

_Derek starts to glance down, doesn’t. Crouches instead and drags a stray piece of ivy from the edge of a gravestone._

_Stiles sighs._

_“Whose is it?”_

_Derek shakes his head._

_“It doesn’t matter.”_

_“It doesn’t matter, or you can’t read it?”_

_Derek pushes himself back to his feet, and Stiles can feel how agitated he is now, and he hates that he’s pushing this, but… but Derek needs to understand. They won’t get anywhere if he doesn’t._

_“Derek… we need to know where you are. Really.” He hops off the tomb as Derek turns away, and each movement is an effort, like the grey air around them is made of something thicker – water, not fog. “What’s going on? Where does she have you?”_

_“It doesn’t matter,” he repeats, and there’s a bite to his words. Sharp and bitter. “I can’t fight her, I can’t even move. She’s keeping me so fucking drugged I can barely stay conscious for five minutes at a time. What the hell does is matter if I know where I am?” Stiles stares, wide-eyed and startled, as Derek slowly turns back to face him. “There’s no war to fight here, Stiles. I’ve lost.”_

_And Stiles understands._

_They’re in a graveyard._

_He swallows, startled by how sharply the understanding hits him. How it can still feel like a kick in the gut, even though he doesn’t have a gut to be kicked in. Even though he’s just a wisp and a thought inside Derek’s mind._

_“It’s not over.” Stiles forces himself to move forward, to push through the thick, muddled fog of Derek’s drugged-up mind. When he’s close enough to touch him, to see flecks of brown and gold in those green eyes, he says: “You just have to hold it together, Derek. We’re coming to save you.”_

_But Derek just laughs, soft and bitter, and the dream fades to grey._

_.-_

_“Why is it always you?” Derek asks, not cruelly. He’s on his back in the grass, arms back and bracing his head. They’re in the backyard of the burnt-out Hale house, staring up at the stars. At a too-big, too-bright moon. Stiles is sitting up next to Derek, arms looped around his knees, wondering if the stars really look like this to wolves, or if it’s just dream magic that leaves the sky seeming this bright and beautiful._

_“What do you mean?”_

_Derek shrugs._

_“My subconscious could conjure up anyone, right? To remind me I’m dreaming. To be my little cheerleader, tell me to hold on.”_

_Stiles scoffs faintly, indignantly, at being called anyone’s “cheerleader,” much less Derek Hale’s. (He pretty much resigned himself to being Scott’s cheerleader a while back, but that’s where he draws the line.) But then the rest of the words sink in and Stiles stops and stares because…_

_Because_ Derek doesn’t get it _._

_And honestly, how could he? It’s not like Stiles understands this any better. But it’s a fact, it’s what’s happening, and he just took it for granted that Derek understood it too._

_“Derek… I’m not some figment of your brain trying to help you hold on. It’s really me. I’m here.”_

_Derek makes a soft “mmm”ing sound, lips quirking._

_“It’s not bad, just… surprising. Wouldn’t have thought you’d be my first choice.”_

_And this isn’t the time to go indignant again, but Stiles can’t help that the words sting a little. After all the nights he’s been dragged into this, the days he’s spent searching for answers… Arms tightening around his knees, he snaps: “Well, excuse me if I’m not Scott or Cora. But it hasn’t exactly been a thrill for me getting sucked into your head almost every night, dude.”_

_Derek’s eyes flick to him, frowning slightly._

_“That’s… not exactly encouraging.”_

_“Yeah, well sorry I'm not some happy little_ cheerleader _figment. This is me, Derek. Real me. Stiles 1.0 reporting in from the Beacon Hills subconscious stereo network.”_

_Derek starts to smile again, incredulous, but the look fades quickly at Stiles’ dead serious expression. He sits up, slow and wondering, staring at Stiles like he’s never seen him before. Like he’s not sure what he’s seeing._

_“That’s not possible.”_

_“Yeah, well tell that to my brain.”_

_“You can’t just… be in my head.”_

_“Trust me,” Stiles says, sharp and petty but he doesn't care. “It wouldn’t be my first choice.”_

_“But you’re just… Stiles.”_

_“I’m well aware. Unlike some people.”_

_“So how would you be here?”_

_“How_ am _I here, I think you mean?” Stiles shrugs, finally breaking gazes. “Deaton thinks it might be some fun aftereffect of being possessed. You know, the Nogitsune could get in people’s heads, see what they were feeling. The Nemeton gave me and Scott and… gave us nightmares, made us see things, stuff like that. He thinks maybe living with all that in my head opened up some psychic pathway or whatever, so I can sense when my… people I know are in trouble.” He clears his throat, still uncomfortable with the whole idea.  Still not really sure what it means for him.  He glances back at Derek. “He said it was pretty much inevitable that being exposed to so much supernatural energy would leave traces.”_

_Derek doesn’t react, just keeps on staring. Trying to wrap his head around it._

_And Stiles, thinking back, decides it must be pretty weird to discover that someone’s been standing around watching your dreams when you thought you were alone._

_At least he hasn’t stumbled in on Derek doing anything too embarrassing. Or intimate. Or…_

_“_ I _know this is real,” he says quickly, cutting his wandering thoughts off before they go anywhere he's not prepared to think about. “That it’s really you, because I woke up from that dream in the locker room where you were talking about getting shot up, and found your loft riddled with bullet holes. And you’d gone missing.”_

_Derek’s lips part.  He licks them and presses them together quickly again.  And god it’s been about three minutes since he’s even blinked.  Stiles' eyes are watering for the guy, dream or no.  
_

_Finally, swallowing, he speaks._

_“Ok. And how do_ I _know this is real?”_

 _“Why the hell would you dream me saying I’m real? I mean, like you said, why would you dream_ me _at all?”_

_Derek’s eyes go soft and pained in a way Stiles doesn’t quite understand. Probably thinking about all the people he’d rather be seeing._

_But Stiles is past being offended, because the faster he gets Derek on board with this whole psychic rescue mission, the sooner he can save Derek and go back to having his normal, run of the mill post-possession nightmares._

_“Hey, I told you about the fingers, didn’t I?”_

_Derek’s smile is sharp, sarcastic._

_“I think I would’ve noticed something was up when I saw extra fingers, even without you.”_

_“Yeah, but how’d you know to look? Does Derek Hale just go googling dream facts in his free time?” Derek’s lips press shut again. “Didn’t think so. No, you know random monster-werewolf facts; that’s your department. I’m up on all the other random trivia you don’t know you need ‘til you need it. And you know it.”_

_Derek’s staring again, and seems to realize it, squeezing his eyes shut with a faintly pained expression._

_“So you’re… actually real.”_

_“Dude, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”_

_“And when you said… the other night…” His teeth are gritted, like the words pain him to say, “You were coming… to save me…”_

_Stiles’ heart goes tight. He remembers the feel of the air in the graveyard, grey and heavy and completely hopeless. He remembers the blank, lifeless eyes of teenage Derek while the nightmare Kate closed in to kill._

_He forces as much confidence as he can into his tone as he reaches out to grab Derek’s shoulder._

_“We’re going to save you. You just need to work with us, Derek.”_

_Derek's eyes flicker open, the barest spark of hope shining there. But then something like a lightning bolt breaks across them both, and_ Stiles finds himself in his own bed, shuddering and aching like he’s been electrocuted.

Because, probably, Derek just has been.

He takes out some frustration by punching his mattress, then twists and lies flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

“We’re gonna find you,” he says again, firmly, and closes his eyes. He falls back to sleep eventually, but this time he doesn’t dream.


	3. Respite

_Derek looks up at the sound of footsteps, smile flitting across his face when he catches sight of Stiles. He holds up a hand almost casually, like a wave, and Stiles echoes the gesture._

_Six fingers a piece._

_“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this,” Stiles says, going for light. Derek looks haggard this time around, his shirt bloody, burnt, and bullet-ridden, his face too-pale except for the bruise-colored bags darkening his eyes. Is this what he really looks like now, Stiles wonders, or just how he’s feeling shining through?_

_“I didn’t even know I’d passed out,” Derek murmurs, which could mean either. Or both._

_Stiles shrugs, sinking down next to him against the wall. He feels the humid dampness seeping against his back, smells the must and mildew in the air. It’s more detailed, more_ real, _than any of the dreams before._

_“Maybe you didn’t. Maybe I’m invading your brain even when you’re awake now. Can’t ever get rid of me, Wolf boy.”_

_Derek’s lips twitch again, but the emotion isn’t reaching his eyes._

_Stiles glances around the dark, dank room; a cellar or some obscure section of sewer. It’s Derek’s dream, and he can make out as much as Derek can in it. There isn’t a lot to see, though: mildew-covered walls that fade back into darkness. A rusty puddle beneath some dripping pipe in the nearest corner. The occasional, twitching motion of a rat in the shadows._

_“This where she’s keeping you?”_

_Derek’s shoulder jerks.  
_

_“For tonight. We’re always moving.”_

_“She’s still drugging you, blindfolding you whenever you move?”_

_His head twitches, barely. Stiles wonders if the drugs are messing with Derek’s brain as much as body. Wonders if maybe he’s starting to give up hope._

_He lets out a breath, tapping his fingers fast against his knee. Even in a dream, far removed from his own body, the familiar motion eases his nerves._

_“You’ve gotta give us something, Derek. We’re looking for you, we’re gonna find you, but you need to give us something.”_

_Derek doesn’t answer, his eyes falling shut. And slowly, so slowly Stiles barely notices the movement, he slides sideways until their shoulders touch._

_If they weren’t already dreaming, Stiles would assume he’s fallen asleep._

_“There’s something,” Derek breathes after a few seconds. Stiles’ eyes go to him; his are still closed._

_“Ok, good. What?”_

_Derek’s head shakes. His eyes slit back open, catch Stiles’, pained._

_“No.”_

_“No… No?” Is that Derek’s clue? Some kind of a sign he’d seen or part of a license plate or something? Because he can’t actually be saying_ no _. They’re trying to save Derek’s life, putting all kinds of crazy hours into looking, and why the hell wouldn’t he want to help with that? “Um… we’re gonna need more than that, Derek. Like No…rth Dakota or—”_

_“No, not yet.” He swallows. His gaze flits away into the darkness. “I tell you, you’ll wake up.”_

_Stiles feels a smirk starting to form and forces it down. The drugs are definitely messing with Derek’s brain._

_“Yeah, and then I’ll tell everyone and we’ll be able to start seriously looking for you. Which is good.”_

_Derek’s eyes slide shut again. His arm trembles against Stiles’ shoulder._

_“Not yet,” he repeats, voice gruff, and Stiles gets it._

_“Ok.”_

_Water drips into the rusty puddle. Rats chitter and chase each other just out of view. And then Stiles shifts, like he’s trying to get comfortable on the damp floor, and when he settles again their arms are pressed together, shoulder to elbow._

_Derek draws in a slow breath. The shivers ease slightly._

_They sit like that for a few minutes; until Derek’s breathing evens out, until his arm stops shuddering at odd intervals against Stiles’. It’s peaceful, relaxing in a way so little these past weeks have been. But Stiles can’t just let these moments slip by. If one of them wakes up, if his connection to Derek breaks, they’ll lose a whole day of searching. They’ve lost too much time already._

_“You can tell me now, you know. I won’t wake up.”_

_Derek’s been watching his hand, stretching the fingers out wide and turning the wrist slowly. Now slowly, experimentally, the fingers clench into a six-fingered fist._

_“Mexico.” He sighs, the hand dropping to rest on his knee. “We’re in Mexico. The way the sunlight hits my eyes when we move… the car’s been heading south. She muttered something about a border. And I hear people talking sometimes as we go by. Hasn’t been English for days.” And… crap. Because Mexico’s big. And Stiles doesn’t exactly have a passport. But that’s something they can deal with when they get to it. He’s gotten trickier places than across a border._

_And he can’t help being impressed that Derek’s picked up as much as he has. Sunlight hitting his eyes… that’s actually pretty cool._

_“Ok,” Stiles answers, forcing himself to sound hopeful. One of them has to (and damn it, he really has become Derek’s cheerleader somewhere along the line, hasn’t he?) “That’s good. That’s definitely not North Dakota. Now we’ve got a solid place to start looking.”_

_Derek nods wordlessly and draws in another breath. Too heavy, too harsh. Stiles can’t look at him, and the silence between them stretches._

_“How many days has it been?”_

_Stiles swallows. Because Derek has lost track, because it shouldn’t have taken them this long in the first place._

_“Seventeen days.”_

_Derek nods, a little more firmly now. Now that he has some solid fact to hold onto again, while everything constantly shifts around him._

_“We’re gonna find you.”_

_“I know.”_

_He says it like he’s supposed to say it, not like he believes it, and Stiles nudges him hard, twisting to face Derek and repeating firmly:_

_“Derek. We’re_ going _to find you. And we’re gonna drag you from whatever sewer you’re holed up in, and then we’re all gonna hold down that Kate bitch while you kill her. For good this time.”_

_He pauses, waiting, while Derek blinks his eyes open. When their gazes meet again, Stiles nods firmly, forcing the point to stick._

_“Peter really wants to kill her, but we decided he lost his privileges after he screwed up so bad last time. He says he’s sorry, by the way. …Although he did kind of imply that since you killed him that one time, you might be sort of even?”_

_Stiles leans slowly back against the wall until their elbows touch, and Derek is watching him now, eyes alive and focused in a way they haven’t been all night._

_And so Stiles does what he does best: he keeps rambling._

_“Scott punched him. Scott’s been kind of stressed lately. Honestly, I think he relies on your advice more than he likes to let on. He’s sort of crumbling under the weight of the whole lone Alpha thing.”_

_And what else?_

_“Lydia’s been hanging out with Meredith. You know, that other Banshee? They’re going on day trips into the woods and… screaming at things, I guess. I don’t really get how any of that works, but I guess they’re figuring it out. I think Lydia’s hoping they’ll be able to combine their danger-sensing powers to feel things before people are in immediate, life-threatening danger. So that might help once they’ve got a handle on it.”_

_Derek is half-facing Stiles now, back twisted away from the wall, eyes moving across his face like he can drink in his words by staring hard enough._

_“And… oh! And Malia. You know Malia, she’s the girl who was a coyote and now she’s a girl again?” Stiles smirks. “Derek, you are gonna want to talk to Malia when you get home. Or… no, talk to Lydia about Malia. It’s not really my place to say anything but trust me, it’s gonna blow your freaking mind.”_

_Stiles goes on like that, talking about whatever comes to mind. About how Ethan had left town for a fresh start, chasing rumors of a pack in Nevada, and how it’d been Danny – “remember Danny, that guy I made you strip for last year?” – of all people who’d come by and told the group about it._

_About how Stiles’ dad had written an official note and everything excusing Stiles from school until this was over, and how Scott’s mom had refused to because Education is Important. So Stiles had forged a note for Scott anyway and now they’re both spending their days holed up at the animal clinic, intercepting forwarded phone calls from the school nurse and trying to figure out what the hell a were-jaguar is._

_And somewhere along the line, the pipe stops dripping and the rats stop scurrying in the shadows. The walls seem cleaner, and Stiles doesn’t feel the mildew drying onto his jeans anymore._

_Derek’s still watching him, soaking up his words like he’d forgotten that other people exist back in Beacon Hills, that there’s a whole world out there beyond the haze of sedatives and dark sewers and Kate Argent and dreams._

_“And that’s basically,” Stiles says some time later, “how last season finished up. So there you go. Now you have no excuse not to watch it when it comes back this spring.”_

_Derek is leaning against the wall again, and the basement’s actually pretty comfy at this point. The damp smell has faded entirely, and the concrete feels somehow comfortable, pliable, beneath them. And Derek’s eyes are fully engaged, and his lips have curved into a familiar, disapproving scowl._

_“I don’t have a TV, Stiles.”_

_“Then you’ll just have to come over my place.” Derek arches a brow, startled and skeptical, but Stiles just shrugs because hey, they’re hanging out in each other’s brains. They’ve definitely reached a place where they can sit down and watch TV together. …As long as Derek’s physically capable of doing something as normal as watching TV. “Come on, dude. I need one friend who’ll watch_ Game of Thrones _with me.”_

_Derek’s lips twitch and he looks away._

_“It sounds completely ridiculous.”_

_“It sounds epic, and amazing,” Stiles corrects, sternly. “Which it is.”_

_Derek scoffs._

_They’re quiet for a few seconds, until Stiles nudges Derek with his elbow._

_“We’re gonna save you, you know.”_

_And Derek smiles, and the smile touches his eyes._

_“I know.”_

When Stiles wakes up, for once he’s not screaming. He stares at the ceiling, smiling faintly, for nearly a full minute before sitting up, grabbing a pillow (not _his_ pillow. God knows what a sleepy Scott might accidentally do to his pillow), and chucks it across the room at his friend’s head.

“Wake up, Alpha boy. We’re going on a road trip.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, I know. But this really needed to go on its own. Hopefully you enjoyed the boys' little respite. Leave your thoughts, and I'll get more up soon.
> 
> Also, I haven't actually gotten around to watching "Game of Thrones", but it sounds like that type of show that Stiles "part of an online gaming community that battles mythical creatures" Stilinski would like. :P


	4. Deep Water

_“I’ve heard,” Derek says, musingly, “that if you die in a dream you die in real life.”_

_They’re sitting in the loft this time… except that the loft is filled with water like a strange indoor mini-lake.  Derek’s bed is acting as a raft, Stiles sitting cross-legged on one end while Derek lies sprawled on his back on the other.  They’re moving slightly, drifting aimlessly around the apartment courtesy of some unknown current, while the edges of the dark sheets stream out behind them._

_Neither of them have commented on the bizarre setup, though Stiles can’t help wondering which of their brains it sprang from.  They’re in Derek’s dream – what they see tends to come from him. But Stiles has a hard time picturing anything this surreal and peaceful existing in the brooding wolf’s brain._

_He laughs, flinging a pillow, Frisbee style, into the water just for the hell of it, and watches it soak up the water and sink._

_Apparently beds can float in this fantasy, pillows can’t.  Go figure._

_He glances over at Derek, smirking._

_“Oh good.  So I can kill you right now and be done with all this dream-sharing crap?”_

_Derek’s eyes drift shut, his lips tilting as they rock gently with the drifting current. And Stiles turns his attention to the table floating past them in the other direction, determined to find something he can fashion into a fishing pole._

_.-_

Crossing the border into Mexico turns out to be way easier than the group had feared.

Frustratingly easy, honestly.

Scott pats Stiles’ shoulder as they’re waved through and continue driving south, Lydia flashing one last bright smile at the guard before hitting the gas.

“Dude, it’s a good thing they didn’t check. Less chance of getting caught.”

“Yeah, it’s just… after all that effort I put in to the passports, seriously.  I even made sure the dates made sense and everything.  And didn’t give any of you ridiculous pop star or porn names.”

From his place in the shotgun seat, Peter tilts his head.

“I believe you named me after the Antichrist in a popular horror film.”

Stiles smirks.

“What can I say? No one would doubt it fits you.” And then, because he’s feeling particularly spiteful: “And I named you after the Antichrist in the crappy remake.” Who had the same name, but still. It was the thought that counted. And Stiles doesn’t think too highly of Peter coming along, wereKate to deal with or no.

He grimaces as they pass the nearest line of buildings, bringing an endless desert landscape into view.

“Your wit isn’t as sharp as usual, Stiles.  Maybe you should take another nap, dream of my dear nephew.”

“Maybe I will. He’s better company, anyway.”

He thinks Malia might be wincing on the far side of the car when he rolls his eyes at Scott and slides them shut.

Oh well; the girl’s got a creep for a birth father.  She’s gonna have to deal with it eventually.

.-

_“You deserve to die here, you know.”_

_The voice washes over them seemingly out of nowhere – high and young and strangely soft to be saying something so dark._

_This is nothing new: hearing voices – cold, mocking, taunting voices – echoing through Derek’s dreamscape.  Stiles tries to ignore them, tries to act like he doesn’t hear them. It’s a shallow lie, one Derek sees straight through, but it’s the best he can manage short of putting his hands over his ears and singing really loudly while the shadows of Derek’s past come back to haunt him… and Stiles has the notion that might make things more awkward, not less._

_Derek usually follows suit, flinching a little maybe, teeth gritting, but otherwise not reacting to Kate’s taunts, or Jennifer’s, Peter’s… other people Stiles doesn’t quite recognize or doesn’t want to.  He doesn’t let himself think about it too much. It’s not fair to Derek to go digging through his nightmares without permission, even if he is sort of being dragged into them against his will._

_“I can’t take it anymore. Derek, I_ can’t _…”_

_This voice is different, though.  It makes Derek’s eyes squeeze shut, makes him nearly overbalance and tumble right off the narrow bridge._

_This dreamscape had started off in the loft again (pond-free, this time), but a look through the window had revealed a line of brightly painted adobe houses across the street.  Or… across where the street should have been._

_Hello, little slice of Mexico in Beacon Hills.  Stiles had insisted they check it out, in case Derek’s brain was laying out clues like awesome mental breadcrumbs that Stiles and the pack might be able to follow.  Derek had rolled his eyes and insisted Stiles watched too many movies, but had dragged himself off his couch and followed along._

_Of course Derek’s brain, being Derek’s brain, couldn’t possibly make things easy for them.  The space where the road runs outside Derek’s loft in reality has been replaced by a river – a terrifying, fast-running river – with a long narrow beam stretching from Derek’s window to the top of one of the houses across the river, acting as a bridge._

_Stiles might be a dreamwalker or whatever now, but he’s not a dream master. No amount of squinting and thinking had managed to conjure up a fishing pole the other night, and he’d been completely unable to change the dumb walkway into anything less precarious today._

_Derek had snorted while he tried, arms crossed and wondering aloud whether it was really that hard for Stiles to walk in a straight line._

_It would totally serve him right if he tripped and fell right now.  Except..._

If you die in a dream, you die in real life.

_Stiles grabs Derek’s arm, knowing no amount of tugging or dream magic will let him hold up 200 pounds of muscle if Derek really, truly tips over._

_But the contact seems to be enough, seems to snap Derek out of whatever panic-daze the voice had put him in, and he catches himself, grabbing Stiles’ sleeve._

_The water’s deep and blue and strangely smooth under them, and now Derek's sitting down slowly, staring at it, still gripping Stiles’ sleeve like an anchor._

_“Hey, Derek.”_

_He doesn’t answer, pale eyes fixed on the water._

_“Derek, this really isn’t the place for a rest.  Remember the almost tumbling to your death thing?”_

_Derek releases his sleeve, but doesn’t move to stand._

_He’s not scared of the height; Stiles has seen Derek literally leap between tall buildings in a single bound.  Stiles clears his throat, asks softly: “Whose voice was that?”_

_Derek’s head drags toward Stiles – an acknowledgement that he’s heard him, at least, even if he doesn’t quite look at him._

_“You should keep going,” Derek says finally.  “Look for your breadcrumbs.”_

_He really should.  He really, obviously should.  The group’s counting on Stiles to get whatever information he can out of these dreams._

_He sits down, dangling his feet over the edge of the walkway._

_And they both watch the water until one of them wakes._

.-

Stiles is sleeping maybe fourteen hours a day now.

Scott laughs at one point, trying to keep the mood light, saying how Stiles has the easy job.  Always dozing off while the rest of them have to drive and search and investigate every unlikely lead they can dig up. Just a joke, and Stiles laughs with the rest of them before ducking away to whatever back corner he can find, downing another mouthful of Nyquil and forcing his eyes shut.

Most of the time he doesn’t dream of Derek, and some days they miss each other altogether. No attempts at syncing up their sleep schedules have worked out – Derek seems to be existing in a state of perpetual semi-consciousness from whatever drugs Kate’s keeping him on, slipping under completely in rare, random moments between traveling and the were-jaguar’s daily amusements of electro-shock, bloodletting, and whatever else her sick mind can come up with.

Most of the time, Stiles finds himself trapped in his own nightmares.

.-

_He’s running through the school at night, chasing the sound of a girl’s ragged screams. The hallways are twisting and bending in ways he barely recognizes, and he’s kicking up bright blue and blood red balloons with every step._

_A scream pierces the air again, this time followed by the unmistakable snarl of a wild animal.  Stiles spins, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound in the echoing hall._

_“Lydia?”_

_“Help me!”_

_He makes a snap decision and bolts down the left wing, almost falling down the stairs that are suddenly at his feet.  He overbalances but manages to stay upright as he trips down them three at a time._

_“Lydia, where are you?”_

_But the girl that barrels into him – petite with brown hair and a birthmark under one eye – definitely isn’t Lydia.  Stiles has never seen her before in his life._

_“Help me,” she repeats, dark eyes wide and wild, clutching the front of his red tracksuit.  And Stiles doesn’t care who she is anymore, because he’s just caught sight of the hulking shadow of a creature loping up the hallway toward them.  A werewolf, what else?_

_“Yeah,” Stiles nods, grabbing the girl’s hand.  “Yeah, let’s run.”_

_He thinks he’s heading for the main doors – get out of the school, get to his Jeep, drive veryvery fast and veryvery far away from the snarling beast running full-tilt after them, slamming into lockers with the sound of denting steel at every corner – but when he pushes the last set of doors open they’re at the pool._

_The whole room’s bathed in blue, water stretching out seemingly endlessly in front of them and echoing off the pale tiles.  And Stiles is pretty sure the pool shouldn’t be this wide or long, that there should be some space to walk along the walls beside it, some way to get around._

_“What do we do?” the girl breathes._

_Neither of them suggests swimming.  Stiles feels, down in his bones, that touching the water would be a death sentence._

_And then the wolf is barreling through the doors._

_The girl spins to face it and screams, hands going up in a helpless effort to defend herself, her brown eyes bright with tears._

_“Please don’t do this.  Please!”_

_Stiles hasn’t turned, still scanning the water, the way it ripples without anything in it, the way it reaches both walls and goes down so deep he has no hope of seeing the bottom.  There has to be something he can do, some way he can fight.  Something._

_He feels the wolf close in behind them, and finally turns to face it._

_Dark hair, deadly sharp teeth.  Gleaming blue eyes behind sloping, feral features._

_“I have to, Paige,” Derek says, and his claws dig into her chest._

_She makes a choked sound as his hand draws back, and stumbles.  One step, then another, and then she's falling backward into the endless pool.  Her blood begins to spread out – a wave of crimson in the pale blue water.  Her dark eyes are still wide and watching Derek, pain and betrayal plain in her soft features._

_And Stiles can’t just let her sink._

_He tries to step forward, to dive in after her, but Derek’s behind him suddenly, gripping his arms and holding him still._

_“Derek, what the hell?  She’s still_ alive _! We have to help her.”_

_“We can’t help her,” Derek says, dully.  “I killed her.”_

_And suddenly the body isn’t sinking anymore. It’s rising, floating back to the surface. Pale and cold and_ gone, _betrayal still in its dead features.  And other things are rising too.  More bodies coming up from the impossibly deep depths.  A middle-aged woman with dark hair, a little boy with Derek’s shifting green-gold eyes.  Blonde curls drifting around a pale, full-lipped face.  Dark skin, darker eyes, deep claw marks still bleeding from a brawny chest.  And more, others.  Some distantly familiar, some Stiles knows and could name – Laura Hale, Jennifer Blake, Aiden – and some he’s never seen in his life.  All floating just beneath the surface of the water now, all clearly dead, all eyes inexplicably on Derek like he should have done something more to save them._

 _Stiles realizes he’s pushed himself back from the edge of the water, that Derek’s grip has dropped away from his arms, that_ he’s _the one gripping Derek now._

_“Derek, you can’t…”_

_“They’re all dead because of me,” he says, like he’s talking to himself. Like he’s forgotten that Stiles is even here.  The little boy’s face bobs to the surface, and for a second it’s a burned skull, unrecognizable, before it slips back beneath the water._

_Stiles feels sick._

_“Derek…”_

_“I should’ve died here.”_

_That hits Stiles like a punch in the jaw, and he grips Derek’s arm tighter as Derek turns a broken gaze to meet his._

_“You should’ve let me drown, Stiles.  It wouldn’t have fixed everything, but Boyd, Erica… I convinced Aiden to fight…”_

_Stiles fights the urge to flinch away, finds himself looking back in the water because it hurts less to see Erica’s slowly drifting corpse than to see Derek blaming himself for it._

_“That’s stupid, Derek.  That’s some overdramatic, emo, you’ve-been-trapped-in-depressing-dark-pits-way-too-long-with-Kate-breathing-in-your-ear bullshit.  And don’t try to make me feel bad for saving you.  That’s a dick move.”_

_Derek draws in a slow breath._

_“Are you really you?”_

_“Yeah, and I can tell you’re you because all this?  Way too high on the broody scale for my brain to ever come up with.”_

_Derek moves suddenly, grabbing Stiles’ shoulders and forcibly turning him until they face each other.  For a second Stiles is glad because the dead look is gone from his eyes.  Maybe he’s getting through._

_That hope doesn’t last long._

_“Stiles, listen.  Don’t come for me.  Just… stop looking. Go back to your life, tell everyone to go back to their lives.  Kate’s strong and she’s smart, and she’s ruthless.  She won’t hesitate to kill any of you.”_

_Stiles tugs back, and maybe it’s dream magic giving him extra strength or maybe Derek’s just not trying that hard to hold on, but he pulls out of the Beta’s grip easily._

_“You know, Lydia said the same thing when Evil Me had her.  What’s with this group and not wanting to be rescued?”_

_Derek’s eyes go cold, flit away to the water._

_“Allison died when you went to save Lydia.”_

_Allison isn’t in the water, or at least Stiles doesn’t see her. He doesn’t look too long. He doesn’t want to wonder if Derek’s found a way to blame himself for that, too._

_“We’re not going to die, Derek.  The only one dying will be that werebit—”_

_“Do you think it’s true?”  Derek’s voice is so soft it knocks Stiles right out of his rant.  He swallows, feeling wrong-footed._

_“Is what true?”_

_“If you die in a dream you’ll die in real life.” He sounds painfully hopeful, staring out at the dead faces in the water. “If I just drown here like I was supposed to, do you think I won’t wake up?”_

_What the hell is Kate_ doing _to him?_

_Stiles moves forward again, grabbing the front of Derek’s shirt, leaning close to that broken face and growling._

_“Don’t you fucking_ dare _, Derek. I haven’t gone through all this to watch you drown.  If you go in that water, I’m going too, and I’ll hold you up just like last time until your corpses drag us both under.”_

_Derek holds his gaze, eyes flaring blue for a second before he wrenches himself away and stalks back toward the doors._

_Fine. You know what?_ Good. _Let him be angry. Let him hate Stiles. Whatever the hell keeps him from being suicidal._

_Stiles collapses next to the pool and sits there, glaring into the water. The corpses don’t acknowledge him, their dead eyes staring at the door after Derek’s departing back._

_He’ll guard the thing all fucking night if he has to._

_\--_

When he wakes this time, it’s still dark.  Everyone’s sleeping except for Peter, who stares steadily out the window, watching the moon. Stiles can’t help wondering if he does stuff like that ironically.  He can’t remember Scott ever developing sudden urges to stare or howl at the moon after going wolf.

Stiles doesn’t bother to hide the way his hands go to wipe at his cheeks – jerk can probably smell the tears from there. Probably heard him crying in his sleep.

He’s too worn down to care.

For nearly a minute Stiles stares at the ceiling in blessed silence, before: “Was my nephew good company tonight?”

“Your nephew’s a bigger dick than you are.”

He sees Peter’s pale lips tilt in the moonlight.

And suddenly, maybe because he cares less about worrying Peter than the others, maybe because Peter’s the only one who’d have half a chance at knowing: “Do you think if you die in a dream, you’ll die in real life?”

Peter’s brow twitches at that, but he doesn’t look at Stiles.  Which is good. If he doesn’t look, Stiles can pretend this conversation isn’t happening.  His own gaze goes back to the ceiling.

“A normal dream,” Peter muses, “I’d think not.  The dreamer tends to wake when they’re put in serious jeopardy, when they fall or get attacked. It’s a shock reflex. But a magically induced dream?” He pauses thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t attempt it.”

Which means Stiles' being there might actually _help_ Derek on his stupid suicidal crusade.

He doesn’t sleep for three days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, Derek's getting a little dark here. Don't worry, Stiles will help him turn things around. I actually got a fun idea from this chapter, though I'm not sure if I'll go with it yet.


	5. Wide Asleep

Exhaustion gets the better of him on the third day.

Because sleep is something human beings need sometimes, no matter how pissed off or well intentioned they are. (Stiles is feeling high levels of both. And tired. He didn’t know if it was possible to feel tired again ever, but here it is.)

Besides, everyone’s been giving him weird looks ever since he entered back into the World of the Waking People full time. Peter, unhelpful as always, keeps walking around inserting cheerful comments about a “tiff” and a “lover’s quarrel” in a way that makes Lydia roll her eyes, Scott squint like he’s trying to figure out Peter’s agenda, and Malia just shrink away from it all, a pinched look on her face. She should be thanking her lucky stars she didn’t have to grow up with the guy, right?

Stiles just wants to hit Peter, werewolf-enforced jaw bones or no. But continued hand functionality is important, so he manages to resist the urge.

“Anyway,” he says on day two of Conscious Stiles Time, trying not to look too drowsy as he and Scott make their way down a narrow cobbled road that seems to lead to nowhere. “I just figured I could help you guys out here for a while. It’s nice to be on my feet, you know? And you guys haven’t exactly been getting that far while I spend my days sleeping.”

“But we need more information,” Scott answers easily. “Bribing for rumors only gets us so far. You’re our inside man, Stiles. Besides…” He pauses, toeing the ground and sending a stray rock skittering across the cobbles, startling a trio of chickens. “It’s been over a month since Kate got him, man. Derek’s probably going insane without some company.”

Stiles wants to argue that Derek’s going insane just fine even with his company, but there’s really no point. Even if Scott were wrong about everything (he isn’t) Stiles can’t stay conscious forever.

So on the third night he finally sleeps, and he dreams of an internment camp. The ground is strewn with corpses wearing the faces of his friends, and his hands are slick with blood.

He wakes up shaking, and Peter quirks a brow at him from his usual spot at a window. Stiles scowls.

“My own nightmares.”

“Must be a welcome change,” is all he says, and Stiles rolls to his other side and squeezes his eyes shut again.

.-

After two days straight of Nogitsune, kanima, asylums, and – strangely – ending up on the lacrosse field during a championship game in one of Lydia’s dresses (trying to dodge through that field in six-inch heels is seriously not fun, let Stiles tell you) he starts to feel tendrils of fear trailing through him.

“I’m sleeping _constantly_ , dude. I’m sleeping so much it’s making me sick. I think I’m getting rings under my eyes from sleeping _too much_. Why the hell haven’t I seen him yet?”

Scott’s sitting in front of him, cross-legged on an old box. They’re making camp in an abandoned warehouse in the middle of who knows where (Stiles definitely doesn’t. He hasn’t even seen outside the building.  Someone, hopefully Scott, had carried him in, still sleeping, when they got here.)

“You’ve gone this long before, haven’t you?”

“Well, yeah.” He rakes a hand through his hair, feeling jittery, pacing. Body desperate to work out some excess energy while it can, and there’s no way in hell he’s getting to sleep again without some serious self-medicating. “But that’s when I was only doing like twelve hour days. We should’ve crossed paths by now. Scott…”

His shoulders are shivering now, and it’s excess energy, ok? It’s excess energy and too much Nyquil and alright, maybe he’s on the verge of a minor panic attack because…

“Scott, what if he’s not dreaming because he’s dead?”

They _can’t_ have gone through all this just to lose Derek, ok? Not while Stiles was too busy being petty and avoiding him to even notice.

Scott pushes himself to his feet, grabs Stiles’ shoulder. The contact helps; he stops shaking so badly. Scott leans in and catches his gaze.

“We’ve got no reason to think that. And we have Lydia. She’d know if he died, and she hasn’t sensed anything like that, right?” They both look over to the banshee in question, who’s finishing off a braid and pursing her lips like she’d rather not be dragged into this conversation.

“ _Lydia_?”

“I haven’t. I just… don’t act like I’m a foolproof warning system or something. I _think_ I’d sense something but there’s no way to tell if I definitely would. It’s not like I’m that close to Derek.”

She really isn’t. Which, objectively, makes her agreeing to come along kind of awesome.

“Why the hell did you even come along, then?” Stiles snaps. Scott’s hand clenches on his shoulder as Lydia’s brow hikes up. He winces.

_Too much damn Nyquil. Too much sleep. Too much stress, too much… everything._

“Sorry, that was…”

She secures her braid and flips it back over her shoulder.

“Rude. And fairly stupid. But we’re all on edge, so I’ll forgive you.” And then, as if there’d been no interruption: “You all know I’ve been working on my control, but I’m still not sure what I’ll pick up and why. If Derek’s too far away, if the 'universe' doesn’t think it’s significant that I know, or—”

“Maybe you don’t want to,” Malia cuts in from her corner, where she’s laid out a woven blanket on the cement floor. “Stiles, I mean. Maybe you don’t want to.”

Stiles turns a wavering gaze to her, blinking hard and feeling jittery.

“What do you mean?”

She shrugs.

“Well, why have you been dreaming of him at all? Mr. Deaton said that the first time was because you sensed he was in danger and your mind reached out to him. And ever since then you’ve been trying to dream about him, right?”

Stiles frowns.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, and now you’ve had some kind of…” she scrunches her nose and glances toward her father, who’s lying on his back and smirking way too widely to be sleeping. Nice display of concern for his nephew, there, really. “... _tiff_ , or whatever,” she continues. “So maybe you don’t really want to see him anymore.”

Lydia leans forward, eyes lighting with interest.

“That’s actually kind of a brilliant theory.”

Stiles scowls.

“What? No it’s not.”

“It is. We’ve been operating under the assumption that you’re a receiver, like me. I sense what I sense, messages from the beyond or whatever you want to call it. But you’re different; you actually go out into other people’s dreams. Maybe you’re actually in control of the direction, going where you want to go, and now some part of you… doesn’t.”

“I’m sorry, ok, but that’s stupid.”

Because he _has_ been trying, damn it. He’s been going to sleep just like always, doing the same thing he’d been doing for a month. There was no reason for things to be different suddenly.

“It’s not.” Peter abandons all pretense of sleeping, rolling his head to look at Stiles. “You’re trying to protect him.”

The rest stare between them.

“Wait, from what?” Scott’s eyes search Stiles’ face, narrow and worried.

But that’s a whole other set of issues he doesn’t want to discuss.

“It’s… it doesn’t matter.”

He hasn’t exactly brought up Suicidal Derek to anyone else. Never even really discussed it with Peter, but after the whole late night “die in a dream” line of inquiry and then the sudden sleep avoidance, it would only take so long for the guy to figure it out. Either Stiles was trying to protect himself from Derek, or Derek from himself, and it looked like he’d guessed right.

Which puts his already obnoxious joking in an even worse light, honestly.

And anyway, Stiles feels oddly guilty about the whole thing. Like… like he should’ve been doing more. Like his being there in Derek’s dreams should be enough to stop the guy from wanting to give up or something. He’s the inside man, right? It’s his job.

But he steps away from Scott and looks back to Peter, jaw clenching and nodding slightly. He hasn’t really wanted a repeat of the last dream’s experience. Maybe the creep has a point.

“So what am I supposed to do?”

He was asking the room in general, but Peter’s the one who answers.

“I suppose you either decide that your being there will do more good than harm, or deal with losing your extra insight and hope Derek’s still alive when we find him.”

.-

So he _believes_ , alright? He wills it and wants it and even pictures a transparent Astral Stiles floating out of his body and drifting to whatever pit Derek’s been thrown into this time. He’s seriously trying here.

And the night’s the most restless he can remember, even with the drugs trying to push him under.

He shakes and tosses and jitters, and he’s starting to think he really is making himself sick from all this when a hand comes down on his shoulder. A soothing rush floods out from the palm and spreads out over him.

“Don’t screw up,” a falsely cheerful voice murmurs, and then he’s—

_Pain._

_He feels himself double over before he even realizes he’s on his feet. Clutching his gut reflexively, but it’s not his gut that’s hurting. It’s everything. Everything’s burning, his skin’s on fire, he feels like he’s dying, he…_

_It’s gone as fast as it started and he’s crouching on the ground, shuddering, still screaming, feeling fried to within an inch of his life. He clamps down on the sound, shutting his mouth and hearing an echoing shout choke off from somewhere past the pain-haze. He looks up, breathing ragged._

_The room’s a blur of overexposed color and ghosting movement. He’s on his knees in… in dirt, he thinks, but he can’t feel it, can’t dig his clenching hand into it. In the distance, someone else is breathing hard, biting back growls._

_“Don’t worry, baby. We’re almost done for today.”_

_Stiles feels a ghost of a touch trail across his chest – falsely soothing, repulsive in a way that makes him shudder and physically fight a gag reflex, and he barely has a chance to look down and wonder, because no hand’s near him, no one is anywhere near him at all._

_“What—”_

_And then his wrist is torn open and he collapses again, shouting._

_In the distance there’s a sharp, growling sound, a caught breath, and then “Stiles?”_

_It’s Derek. Derek’s here somewhere. Stiles pushes himself back up, squinting against the too-bright light. His wrist isn’t bleeding; there isn’t a hint of a wound there. But it_ feels _like it is, and he cradles his arm to his chest._

_“Derek? What is this? Where the hell are we?”_

_“Stiles, how—”_

_The third voice cuts in: a light, mocking alto._

_“The Sheriff’s kid, really Der? I thought when you started losing your mind you’d see something more interesting than that.”_

_A phantom hand brushes Stiles’ cheek, and he bats at the sensation even as he hears Derek growl._

_“Derek, what’s happening?”_

_“I’m awake,” Derek breathes, and Kate Argent laughs._

_“Very good. Come on, honey. You’ve held up so well for so long. The next couple weeks will get old really fast if you start babbling like a crazy person.”_

_“You’re awake?”_

_Stiles takes a tentative step, then another, blinking hard against the strangely blinding light. He can make out a pair of figures across the room (so a room with a dirt floor, another cellar?) One of them is bound with his arms tied out at his sides, a smaller one hovering in front, holding something in each hand. Something wide and round in one, long and sharp in the other, but it's too bright and blurry to make out what. He stumbles closer._

_“How the hell am I here if you’re awake, Derek?”_

_The ache in his arm is lessening, and Kate shifts suddenly and he almost crumples again as the pain comes back in force. He whimpers and stumbles a step closer. A bowl. Kate’s holding a bowl under Derek’s wrist, collecting blood. She’s slashing Derek’s wrist, and Stiles is feeling it through some kind of crazy brain connection. The same way he’s felt electricity running through him when Derek gets shocked into wakefulness. Stiles is connected to Derek’s brain, so he’s getting echoes of Derek’s physical experience too._

_Which is tons of fun, seriously. Five star fun times here._

_He clutches his wrist like it’ll staunch the phantom bleeding, and glares at the bowl._

_“Vampire much?”_

_Derek makes a soft sound that might be assent, then says:_

_“Isn’t that enough for today?”_

_Kate laughs._

_“Gotta up the doses closer to the big day. It’s a pain.”_

_“Right,” Derek deadpans. “This ritual bloodletting, it’s a bitch on everyone.”_

_His eyes flick in Stiles’ direction as he says it, like he’s talking for Stiles’ benefit more than Kate’s._

_Which… yeah. Because_ what _?_

_“Ritual? Wait, that’s why she took you? Some kind of ritual?” This is definitely new information._

_They’d never had a clue what Kate was doing with Derek, why she’d take him and drag him across Mexico instead of just killing him. Honestly, ritual bloodletting is a lot less creepy than some of the reasons Stiles has come up with._

_The throbbing in Stiles’ wrist is going away again, and this time Kate lets Derek heal. She’s laughing to herself again. Stiles seriously hates that sound._

_“There you are, Derek. Had me worried for a second there. I’d hate to lose our little chats to a madman’s babbling." The ghost-hand brushes Stiles’ (_ Derek’s _) cheek again, then goes to trail down the side of his neck, his chest. It makes him sick, and scared, and he realizes it’s because Derek’s scared. He steps forward without thinking, moving between them and shoving his arm out. It goes straight through Kate, who keeps smirking up at Derek like Stiles isn’t even there._

_Which, right. He pretty much isn’t. He’s Astral Stiles or some figment in Derek’s brain or something._

_"Although a little wildness in your eyes isn't exactly a turn off."_

_Kate steps in closer and now she’s standing halfway ­_ through _Stiles, and that’s intensely creepy so he backs out of the way quick._

_Derek’s fear is still fluttering through Stiles, setting his nerves on edge. Ok, distraction time. Rambling, talking, refocusing attention time._

_“Derek, what’s the deal with this ritual? What’s she taking your blood for?”_

_Derek’s eyes drift from Kate toward him – he wonders what he looks like to Derek. See-through like a ghost? Overexposed and blinding like Derek is to him? – and Stiles winces ‘cause, right, how is Derek supposed to answer any questions now? But then Derek looks sharply back to Kate, sighing._

_“Ever gonna explain what noble cause I’m contributing to?”_

_The hand’s drifting across his navel, now, light and teasing in a way that makes Derek’s eyes go carefully dead and Stiles shudder._

_“Not yet, baby. But trust me, you’re gonna hate it.”_

_And then the hand’s gone (thank god) and Stiles’ skin stops writhing. And Kate’s stepping back, cradling the blood-filled bowl carefully._

_“Think I could Swayze that straight into her face?”_

_Derek coughs, quick and hard, and Stiles chooses to believe it’s covering a laugh. Derek’s nerves are definitely easing up, because of the distance between him and Kate or Stiles’ commentary, he’s not sure. It really doesn’t matter, as long as Derek’s not so scared._

_Scared Derek is freaking scary._

_“You’re not a ghost,” he mutters back._

_Kate tilts her head, and if she wasn’t a total psychopath Stiles would think she looks concerned. Or maybe it’s_ because _she’s a total psychopath that she can look concerned for the guy she just drained of a pint of blood._

_“No. We covered all that four weeks ago, Derek. Rest up, you seem a little confused. Go dream of your Sheriff’s son coming to save you.”_

_She chuckles again, like the notion that Stiles could be in any way useful is totally hilarious. Stiles makes a face at her departing back because why the hell not? He can act like a six year old all he wants, it’s not like she can see him._

_But Derek can. He thinks. Probably._

_Once she’s gone, he turns back and finds Derek staring at him openly, mouth slightly agape like he can’t decide on a question. Yup, he’s definitely visible._

_And just because Derek looks so shocked, Stiles quirks his lips, shoving his hands in his pockets and shrugging, casual as anything._

_“Hey Derek. Long time no see.”_

_Like he isn’t some kind of bizarre figment that only Derek can see. Like the last time they’d seen each other, Derek hadn’t been talking about killing himself. Derek’s mouth snaps shut, opens again._

_“Have I gone completely insane?”_

_“That’s debatable. It’s debatable that you’ve been insane since I met you. Then again—”_

_“_ Stiles. _”_

 _“Then_ again _,” Stiles repeats, holding up a finger, “I’m the crazy person crazy enough to keep coming back into your brain, so what does that say about me?”_

_Derek’s nostrils flare out, brows lifting. Stiles just grins, and a second later, Derek’s eyes roll._

_“Well, real or not, I guess it’s good to have company.”_

_Which, aw, Derek just admitted he’d missed him. He should take a picture or something. Posterity._

_But he feels his jaw go tight instead._

_‘Even company that doesn’t let you go swimming when you want to?”_

_Derek presses his lips together, sighs._

_“You really want to talk about—”_

_“Really don’t,” Stiles cuts in, even though he’s the one who’d brought it up. “Look, I get it. You’ve had to deal with_ that, _” gesturing toward the door Kate had disappeared through, grimacing, “every day. It’d drive me a little crazy too.”_

_“I didn’t go crazy, Stiles. I was serious.”_

_“Dude, seriously? I’m leaving if you start in on this again. I’m leaving and leaving you alone with your stupid, wrist-cutting were-psycho.”_

_Derek’s eyes start to wall again. He’s less closed off than this when he’s dreaming, more expressive. Stiles had almost forgotten how hard it is to read the guy in the real world._

_“Come on, I’ve been busting my ass on this rescue mission, Derek. We all have. We’re missing school. We’re gonna have to take summer classes if we want to graduate on time, so don’t you dare go sacrificing yourself and make me go to summer school for nothing.”_

_Derek’s eyes move away, like he’s looking for answers in the air around them. Like he can’t fathom just how serious a sacrifice they’ve all made by coming to Mexico and committing to summer school._

_“Stiles… you don’t understand. She’s d—”_

_“Dangerous. Yeah, you’ve mentioned. But we’ve got Scott and Malia and Peter coming to save you. That’s three were’s on one. And let’s not underestimate Lydia, she’s got that crazy banshee scream and I know how sensitive your superhuman ears can all be. And, you know, there’s me, and I can probably flail around and play bait or something while the rest of them—” Derek cuts him off with a growl._

_“Stiles, this ritual, whatever it is, we can’t let her complete it.”_

_Stiles rolls his eyes._

_“Duh. I mean, ‘trust me baby, you’re gonna hate it’? Not exactly encouraging.”_

_“Right. And who knows if you’ll find me in time? Who knows-" he cuts himself off, pitching his voice lower. "Who knows if you’ll actually beat her? She’s a trained hunter, Stiles. Trained from birth just like Chris. Worse than Chris, because she had a real passion for it. She never played with dolls, she never joined a school club. She had no life other than training, manipulation, killing. That was her world even before she turned, and she was good at it. And what if she has outside help? Or just gets lucky? Then she completes this ritual—”_

_“And the Hellmouth opens and I get to battle a dragon,” Stiles cuts in, crossing his arms. “We’ll deal with that when we deal with it. I’m not letting you die over a what if.”_

_“And I don’t want anyone else dying over me.”_

_Stiles sighs, thinking of dead faces in a pool in Derek’s mind._

_“Lay off with the guilt complex. It won’t be over_ you _, ok?”_

_Derek’s brows arch._

_“What would it be over?”_

_“A principle,” Stiles smiles cheekily. “We don’t leave a man behind, soldier. Now, tell me what you know about where you are now, and why the hell you didn’t mention this ritual crap earlier.”_

.-

“He didn’t find out what she was up to ‘til recently. Apparently back at the start she would just cut into him and the blood on her knife would be enough for whatever she’s doing. And since she was electrocuting him and, like, burning his skin with lighters and who the hell even wants to know what else, not me, he just figured the cutting was more of the same. More recently she’s taken to collecting it in vials or bowls, which is both gross and ow, let me tell you. And when he asked about it she admitted it was for a ritual, but didn't say much else.

“Also weird: they’ve apparently stopped moving around. Derek thinks – check this, creepy – they’ve been traveling around to sites of serious magical energy, places like Beacon Hills. Places on ley lines or with a magical history or whatever might give a location a power boost. You know how our leads have basically been taking us in circles? It's because she’s been taking him to a bunch of very specific places. And I think she’s probably been leaving blood offerings at each of them. Now she’s at the final point or the middle or wherever the ritual needs to be completed, and that’s why they’ve been in the same place for three days, and that’s why she’s taking more blood. Which means whatever’s going down, it’s gonna happen pretty soon. Although I think Kate mentioned Derek being around for a couple more weeks, which does give us some wiggle room.”

He leans his elbows on his knees, smiling. This is way more information than they’ve come up with a long time, and he’s feeling pretty good despite the too-much-sleep wooziness.

The rest of the group stares, wide eyes and small frowns. Scott shakes his head slowly.

“Wait, so you were in his head while he was _awake_?”

They’re having trouble processing.

“You guys just work your way through that. I’m calling Deaton about blood magic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, there's actual plot stuff happening in this chapter! We should be nearing the end of this one, guys. (Which is probably a good thing since I've got too many multi-chaps going on right now anyway).
> 
> Love you all, let me know what you think!


	6. Bloodlines

“It’s blood magic,” Deaton says, and Stiles can practically hear his eyebrow arching knowingly over the phone line.

He really hates that expression.

“Yes. Yeah. I just told _you_ that. So what does that mean?”

“Blood magic, Stiles.” The man repeats patiently. “What do you think blood magic would affect?”

And when Stiles just rolls his eyes at the phone because how the heck should he know, that’s why they’ve got a former emissary-slash-supernatural veterinarian on speed dial, he sighs tiredly and says:

“ _Blood,_ Stiles. It affects blood.”

.-

_“It’s January?” Derek confirms slowly._

_He’s been quiet the whole dream so far, listening to Stiles explain what they’ve learned about blood magic.  That it’s most often used to affect bloodlines, that those types of rituals are performed almost exclusively when the caster wants to strengthen or harm a group of people sharing the same blood. Family vendettas, “a plague on both your houses” type stuff._

_Which means that Derek’s being used to hurt his family again._ Kate’s _using him to hurt his family. Again._

_No points for creativity, but then why bother going for fresh when the old tricks still wound just as well, right?_

_Stiles had debated not telling Derek at all. There isn’t really anything he could do with the information, and the last thing the guy needs is fodder for yet another guilt spiral. But when he’d seen Derek here in this empty black space – he seems to have lost the capacity to even dredge up depressing surroundings for himself tonight – he knew that he couldn’t just lie to him._

_Stiles is his only link to the real world; he needs to be able to trust him. Except now Derek’s been staring out into the blackness for the past five minutes or so, and nothing Stiles has said has made any kind of impact on him. Stiles was seriously starting to reconsider the whole honesty tactic, debating whether jumping up and shouting “kidding!” might help un-break the guy’s brain, when he finally spoke up to ask about the date._

_He clears this throat._

_“Yeah.” And the guilt eats at him as he confirms it. It’s been almost two months now, that Derek’s been gone. “The second. So, uh… happy New Year?”_

_And Christmas. He still hates that he’s been separated from his dad over the winter holidays. Honestly, he’d been so sleep-dazed he hardly knew it was happening, and his dad and Mrs. McCall had spent the holidays together, and he suspects they were both happy enough with the company, but still._

_The pack had spent New Years on the streets, scouring magical sites for signs of Kate and Derek. They’d caught his scent in a few places – weeks old usually, but it still went to confirm Stiles and Derek’s theory about Kate’s motives._

_Before now, Stiles had only caught passing moments with Derek since the strange Waking Dream of almost a week back, barely catching sight of him before an electrical shock knocked them both awake. Sometimes they shared a few words, sometimes just having enough time to hold up a six fingered hand and smirk before it’s all torn away again._

_His attempts to get in Derek’s waking brain again have failed for no adequately explained reason. Maybe it was a fluke last time, or too draining an experience to repeat, or maybe Derek’s mind was just off-guard while he was being electrocuted the last time around, letting Stiles slip in out of sheer luck._

_Derek’s mind definitely doesn’t seem welcoming now. The blackness is hanging heavily in the air around them, between them. Derek’s folded in on himself, strong arms wrapped around his knees as he drifts through the darkness of his mind._

_“It’s January,” he says again, sounding like he’s just remembering how to speak. His eyes travel slowly to meet Stiles’. “That makes sense. I think... I_ know _when she’s going to complete the ritual. I’m going to tell you, and you’re going to promise something.”_

_It’s not hard to guess what Derek’s going to ask, and Stiles just glares evenly back until Derek uncurls and stands, body taut with tension, eyes flashing (red, Stiles notes. In Derek’s mind, at this moment, he still feels like an Alpha)._

_“Stiles, you just said that whatever she’s doing is going to target my_ family. _Cora, Peter…”_

_“Malia,” Stiles supplies dully, and Derek’s eyes bleed back to hazel, clouding with something between confusion and joy and heartbreak and… oh right, he'd been leaving that news for the others to explain. Great job, Stiles. Now Derek has more family to worry about._

_“And Malia?” he echoes quietly, then blinks, shakes the emotions away, going back to firm, determined. “That just makes it worse. And who knows how far it’ll spread. Distant cousins I don’t even know, people who split into their own packs a century ago. Innocent people, Stiles. People I haven’t even met, who might end up dying just because they’re…_ cursed _to share my bloodline.” He’s trembling now, and sounding less like an angry Alpha and more like the scared boy his earlier stance had made him out to be. Stiles drifts toward him, makes an aborted motion with one arm before dropping it._

_“Derek… it won’t come to that, ok?”_

_“It_ won’t,” _Derek confirms fiercely. “Because I know what Kate’s waiting for. I’ll tell you when the ritual’s happening, and I need your word that if the day comes, if you can’t save me before then, you will get back in my head before moonrise. I’m not risking them. I can’t… Cora…” His voice chokes, cutting himself off. “Stiles, you need to let me kill myself before the Wolf Moon.”_

.-

January: the month of the Wolf Moon. In retrospect, Stiles figures he should’ve guessed that would hold some significance. He’s read about it in passing, but the nickname for January’s full moon is generally considered to be just that; the Native Americans gave each full moon of the year a special name because why the hell not, right? It was supposed to have something to do with the way hungry wolves would be heard howling around settlements in the middle of winter.

But once you know werewolves are real, you learn to read between the lines on things like that. Anything involving wolves and moons ends up meaning more than you see on the surface.

“Derek could be right,” Deaton says over the speakerphone sitting on Stiles’ bouncing knee. “The Wolf Moon is a time of pack bonding, of solidifying loyalties and drawing strength from family. Generally it’s just celebrated as a holiday amongst born weres, a time to run together and rejoice in the strength of a pack connection, but the extra energy could be used to boost blood magic spells.”

“So anything Kate does will be more likely to work and spread further through the bloodline if it’s done on a Wolf Moon,” Lydia says thoughtfully. “That explains why it’s taken so long for her to do the ritual; there’s no reason for it to take two full months to visit the magical sites she needs. She’s been taking it slow, waiting for the power boost.”

So they finally have a deadline: the full moon. January ninth.

They’re all looking a little pale, and Peter’s abandoned his usual habit of lofty perching to pace the floor behind Malia. If Stiles didn’t know he was a completely self-serving bastard he’d say Peter was trying to guard her, create a barrier between her and whatever spell’s coming for them. Not that it would make any difference – if they’re right, the spell won’t fly through the air; it’ll be triggered by their own blood.

Malia’s sitting straight and tense, expressionless. Probably cursing her bad luck to discover she’s a part of the Hale family two months before the connection might end up killing her.

Not that not knowing would make any difference, Stiles thinks, grimacing. Remembering Derek’s panicked rant about distant cousins who don’t even know they’re possibly seven days away from… from what? Horrible, painful deaths, knowing Kate.

He glances to Scott, and an even worse thought makes the phone almost jolt right off his leg. He catches it, hand clenching.

“What about bites?”

“Bites?” Deaton echoes. The rest turn to stare.

“Yeah, I mean… we know whatever she’s doing will affect the Hale bloodline, but you also mentioned pack bonds so like… what about people who’ve been bitten by Hales? Scott and Isaac?”

“Jackson,” Lydia breathes.

There’s a long pause from Deaton – thoughtful, considering.

“The bonds between pack and blood are complex, and similar in many ways,” he says finally. “It would certainly kill more wolves that way, but… the bite. Well. You might have struck on something there, Stiles. I need to check my library; I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

And then Deaton’s gone.

Scott’s blinking at the ground, trying to let the idea settle. Stiles is on his feet, pacing the circle, narrowly avoiding running into Peter on each pass.

Derek had been bad enough. Derek being captured, Derek being…

Damn it, Derek had been bad enough. And then Malia was in danger (and Peter). And now it could be practically everyone. Just him and Lydia left standing while the rest of their friends are consumed by a spell they can’t do anything to fight. A spell triggered by what’s inside them.

Finally Scott looks up, frowning at Peter.

“But then… wouldn’t that kill Kate too?”

Which makes Stiles feel marginally better for about half a second, which is how long it takes to remember what a complete psycho Kate Argent is. Kamikaze missions would be par for the course for her.

.-

_They’re lying in the grass outside the Hale house again. The air’s puffing up white with each breath, but Stiles doesn’t feel the cold. He wonders distantly if this is what winter feels like to a werewolf, with their fast metabolisms and hot blood, or if it’s just a dream thing._

_The moon hangs bright above them._

_Derek’s head is resting on the crook of Stiles’ elbow. That’s how the dream started, and neither of them has moved since. Neither of them has stopped staring at the sky, watching the moon swell with unnatural speed, with each inch it climbs getting closer to fullness._

_“There’s not much time,” Derek breathes. Stiles wants to snort at how stunningly literal Derek’s brain is being, but the sight of the moon nearing its apex is enough to choke the air in his throat. He reaches out, carding a hand through Derek’s hair on instinct, the only thing he can reach without turning from the moon, the only way he has of comforting him with his voice strangled in panic like this._

_And then Derek’s moving. Pushing himself up and turning to straddle Stiles, leaning over him. Ducking down close, eyes raking over his face, clutching Stiles’ forearms in a way that leaves his pulse jumping, leaves him licking his lips and dragging in a sharp, startled breath._

_One of Derek’s hands is trailing down toward Stiles’ own, wrapping around his wrist, dragging it until it’s pinned over his head on the grass._

_Another sharp breath drags out of Stiles._

_“Derek…?”_

_“Kill me, Stiles. Kill me before the moon’s full.”_

_Of course. Damn it. Of course that’s what this fucking is. He forces his breathing to even out, scowls._

_“Derek, there’s still time.”_

_“There’s no_ time, _” Derek snaps. The moon’s almost right above them, round and hauntingly pale. Derek’s hand grips Stiles’ wrist, guides him an inch higher until his fingers brush across something cold, long, and narrow in the grass. He frowns, hand wrapping around it, trying to figure out what it is by touch alone._

_“The moon’s almost full. You’re no closer to finding me. Kill me.”_

_Derek’s hand slides up to cover his own, tightening his grip on whatever he’s holding, then drags it down to hover in the space between them._

_A wicked looking silver dagger._

_Fuck, this is bad._

_Stiles wrenches his hand, tries to drop the blade, but Derek’s holding onto him tightly, keeping his hand on the dagger. Not stabbing himself, though, just waiting._

_“Derek, stop it.”_

_“Kill me and save everyone else,” Derek snarls. He shifts over Stiles, pressing down against his hips as he tries to struggle free. “It’s a no brainer, Stiles. It’s me or everyone.”_

_His free hand moves to the side of Stiles’ face, pressing down on it, turning his head until he’s staring at the brightly lit Hale house._

_There are people inside. People he knows at the windows. Isaac, Malia, Jackson. Scott._

_“It’s me or Scott,” Derek growls against his ear, and releases his head and hand so fast he feels whiplash without even moving. This is wrong. Wrong on so many levels._

_He turns slowly to find Derek still looming over him, waiting._

_“I didn’t tell you my theory about pack bonds.”_

_Derek’s expression doesn’t change. It’s like he didn’t hear him._

_The blade weighs heavy in Stiles’ hand._

_“Me or Scott,” Derek repeats, quietly. “Me or everyone. Decide fast, Stiles.”_

_The moon hits its zenith, and Hale house explodes in hot flames._

_“Too late,” Derek says, seeming disappointed, and then he’s on fire too. A white-hot burning body straddling Stiles’ hips, skin bubbling, blackening and peeling, bones cracking from the heat of it. Gold-green eyes stare down at Stiles while the rest of his body burns._

Stiles wakes up screaming, twisting and flailing, batting at phantom flames until someone’s arms hold him down, and then that just makes him twist harder.

“ _Stiles!_ ” Slowly, a voice filters into his consciousness.“Stiles, what… you’re ok, man. You’re ok.”

Scott. Scott’s alive. _Scott’s alive._ It was just a nightmare.

For now.

They’re sitting in a car – a now pulled over car – following Kate’s trail to the next supernatural hot spot. They have six days until the Wolf Moon.

They’re all staring at him: Lydia from the driver’s seat, Malia at the other edge of the car, Peter in shotgun. Stiles narrows his eyes at Peter, because glaring helps ease some of the terror.

“Just one of mine,” he snaps.

Just a nightmare. Derek would never ask Stiles to stab him.

…But he’d have him do something just as bad.

Six more days before he has to choose. Choose to go to sleep and let Derek kill himself in his mind, or stay awake and risk almost everyone – including Derek – dying.

“We have to find him,” Stiles breathes when Lydia starts driving again. He sinks down against Scott’s side, lets his head fall on his friend's shoulder. “We need to stop Kate, Scott. I can’t…”

He can’t be the one responsible for this. For holding Derek’s life in his hands, for deciding when he’s expendable. When the price is high enough that Derek’s life just isn’t worth it.

He’s been responsible for so many deaths already, his body used to kill and order death. Allison. Aiden. Half the Beacon Hills hospital staff; cops he's known since he was a kid. How many bodies are lying wait for him in the deep waters of his mind?

Six days and then Derek joins them. Or Stiles does nothing, and who knows how many might die.

“We’ll stop it,” Scott says. “We have to be getting close now.”

Six more days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, I'm back to this story! I have it mapped out to the end now, so I should be posting fairly quickly. "Chaotic" should be coming quicker too, now that I'm finished with "The Price", and I'll start writing "The Prodigal" again once I finish writing this one.
> 
> *In case it wasn't clear, the Derek that Stiles saw in the last dream wasn't real; it was just one of Stiles' own nightmares.


	7. Remedy

_“Remember when this was just… peaceful?”_

_Derek lifts his head from where it’s resting in the crook of his elbow to shoot Stiles an incredulous glance. And, alright, maybe he looks peaceful enough lying on his side on the ground, idly plucking and tossing long pieces of grass into the nearby duck pond, but the position reminds Stiles too much of his stargazing dream-turned-nightmare of the day before. And the pond might be too shallow for Derek to really drown himself in, but Stiles can’t help the way he flinches every time Derek gestures toward it, like he’s planning on diving in and getting dragged downward._

_He doesn’t technically even have to be here anymore, now that he has some sense of how he’s getting “here” in the first place, now that the group knows what they’re looking for and are pretty sure that Derek will be alive for the next few days. But hey, a dude’s still got to sleep, right?_

_And if it comes down to it… if these really are Derek’s last few days… Stiles can’t stand the thought of leaving the guy to face the time leading up to the ritual alone._

_That doesn’t make being here any less nerve-wracking._

_“You know what I mean, Derek. We had a few good nights here, didn’t we? Talking, just sort of relaxing. Now I just feel like…” Like I’m on suicide watch, he doesn’t say. Derek gets it anyway because of course he does, sighing softly and pushing himself back up to sit, one knee up, elbow resting on it idly, a long piece of grass rolling between his fingers._

_He looks for all the world like a college student hanging out in the quad between classes. Of course it’d take Derek deciding he’s days from death to finally chill out a little. Because his plan for life seems to be to react to everything in exactly the most ridiculously inappropriate way possible._

_…Which isn’t true, and isn’t really fair. But really,_ how _is Derek acting so calm about any of this? There’s an actual, honest to god smile on his face – it’s barely a lip-twitch, and more thoughtful than anything, but it’s there._

_Weirdly enough, that’s how Stiles knows this is really Derek this time. He doesn’t know if he ever could have imagined Derek being this peaceful, this soft._

_He tosses the grass toward the water, tilting his head thoughtfully._

_“I’m not going to try anything, Stiles. I trust you to tell me when we’re out of time.”_

_Because Derek, in the state he’s in, has no way of knowing how much time is passing. He’s seemed shocked every single time Stiles has given him the date, though Stiles has never asked whether it feels earlier to Derek or later. He’s pretty sure the time in captivity has felt endless._

_It’s both weird and not weird to hear the word “trust” slipping so easily out of Derek’s mouth. His brain tells him he should be reacting to it, smirking and making some kind of exclamation at being inducted into a secret club with a membership of one or Derek having gotten electrocuted one too many times or something._

_He just looks down, swallowing around a choked, bitter feeling._

_“Right, yeah. Don’t worry; you can count on me. When it’s time for you to go drown yourself I’ll totally be here.”_

_There’s a short pause and then Derek shuffles slightly, and maybe there’s some dream magic at work because suddenly he’s right_ there _, inches away, crouching down so he can catch Stiles’ eyes without touching him. He still looks so goddamn calm, so open and at peace with everything that Stiles just wants to punch him._

_“I know you will.”_

_He says it like it’s not the worst thing ever, that it’s good that Stiles would be able to make that kind of call, go all "needs of the many" on him, except instead of stepping into that radiation room himself, he’s grabbing Kirk’s arm and shoving him in headfirst to sacrifice himself and save the ship._

_Like Stiles is being… brave or selfless by letting Derek die, like Derek’s proud of him for it._

_Maybe the guy’s calm now, but he’s still all kinds of messed up._

_A hand comes up and, just barely, brushes Stiles’ elbow._

_“And I’ll say goodbye first.”_

The rest of the group is already moving about when Stiles wakes, gathering up their makeshift camp and getting ready to leave for the day. The wolves can probably tell the second he’s awake, but Stiles’ face is buried in his elbow and he doesn’t move until the tears stop falling.

_.-_

“The mythology behind it is actually quite fascinating.”

Deaton’s voice crackles with static and eagerness as the group gathers around the hood of the car where Scott’s sitting, cross-legged, phone balanced on his leg and listening intently.

Stiles just rolls his eyes, fingers of one hand drumming along his leg, the other going to rub at his neck. “Fascinating” isn’t a word he’d use to describe _any_ of this, but it figures Deaton would. He doesn’t deeply distrust the guy the way he used to – all that sort of bled away during the whole Darach/Nemeton/”helping to save his father’s life even if it did leave permanent scars on Stiles’ soul that allowed a demon fox to take over his body” crisis. But he still thinks the guy’s priorities are screwed up, that he takes too much pleasure in not giving enough information.

“Great,” he snaps. “Can you speed through whatever big historical anecdote you’ve got planned and get to the part that’s actually useful?”

Maybe if he gets back to sleep fast enough Derek will still be there. He’d found himself in a cramped apartment today, an unfamiliar construct of Derek’s mind that had confused Stiles until he’d gotten a glimpse out the window and seen the New freaking York cityscape stretching out before him. Derek had been dreaming of his time away from Beacon Hills, of the home he’d built with Laura after the fire.

It was something Derek had never really talked about, at least not around Stiles. It was something Stiles wasn’t sure the guy even liked _thinking_ about – too much bitter still mixing with the sweet memories.

Derek hadn’t been looking at the view. He’d been standing by the doorway, next to a makeshift coat rack made of a long stick with a hook at the end that looked like it’d been salvaged from a garbage heap somewhere, fingering the sleeve of a woman’s leather jacket. When he’d looked up he’d seemed small, young, not in the way he had all those weeks ago in the school gym when he’d literally de-aged, but just… fragile. The peace of the night before completely replaced by vulnerability. Fear.

That Derek’s mind was going to New York, to Laura, when it never had before in two months of shared dreaming… There was that saying about life flashing, like maybe Derek was getting ready to end things.

_I’ll say goodbye first._

Stiles had forced the tight feeling in his throat away, grinned, gestured to the incredible view and said “you know this means you’re totally taking me sight-seeing” and the lost look in Derek’s eyes had faded just a little…

And then there’d been a jab in Stiles’ side and Scott’s voice saying “Wake up, man. It’s Deaton” and the dream had dissolved away, leaving Derek alone in his bitter-nostalgic dreamscape.

So yeah, Stiles feels no guilt about snapping at Deaton, even if the guy _has_  been researching for them. He ignores Scott’s pointedly disgruntled expression, scowling at the phone like it would help convey his impatience to the man at the other end of the call. Deaton apparently picks up on it, or maybe he's just too eager to share his research to be as enigmatic as usual, because a second later he's saying:

“Kate isn’t planning on killing the Hale family’s turned wolves.” And before that can crystalize into a coherent thought in Stiles brain – relief, except…  not relief because it still isn’t ok, not in any way ok, not if Derek and Malia and Cora, hell, even _Peter_ are in danger – he jumps in with “It’s the cure.”

For a second Stiles can’t breathe. His eyes going to Scott, who’s looked to him just as fast, just as shocked, because… the _cure_?  The cure they’d spent the better part of last spring looking for? The cure it had taken months of research and a visit to a gun-happy scientist to convince them didn’t exist?

The rest are in Stiles’ periphery, Malia seeming confused, Lydia’s brows furrowing in that way she does when she’s piecing a puzzle together, and Peter just… blank. Stiles can’t get a read on whether the guy’s shocked or disbelieving or what, the expression acting as a sharp reminder that the last time “Peter” and “the cure” had been mentioned in conjunction with each other it’d been because Scott was planning on killing Peter on the off-chance that an old rumor would leave him free to date Allison, the love of his life…

Crap, that feels like years ago. It hasn’t even been twelve months.

“It’s not real,” Scott’s saying quietly, politely, like he thinks maybe he just misheard or misunderstood his old mentor. “Just an old story. There’s no cure for the bite.”

“Not one easily acquired,” Deaton’s voice is just a little too eager as it filters through the quiet street. “But rumors always have a source somewhere. The old story you heard from Derek—”

“That someone bitten by a werewolf could be cured by killing the one who turned them,” Lydia cuts in, maybe for Malia’s benefit. Lydia hadn’t been in the know back then, but most of the early stories had filtered down to her at some point, from Jackson or Allison or Stiles, himself.

“Yes. It turns out there’s truth buried in there, but it’s not nearly as simple as the myth would suggest. The ritual that Kate Argent is using Derek for is ancient, complex, and obviously far more destructive than most people would be willing to consider.”

“Because it affects the whole bloodline, not just the wolf who bit you.”

“Because it eradicates it,” Deaton corrects Lydia, tone as gentle as a word like “eradicates” can allow.

Stiles feels his nails bending as they dig into the hood of the car. Scott’s staring down at the phone again with a pale face, mouth open in a small “o.”

“So Kate’s spent two months on a ritual that’ll kill four wolves and cure who knows how many others?” Stiles presses a hand to his head, scrubbing hard through the too-long hair that keeps trying to fall into his eyes. “I mean, no offense to the Hales but that seems really tame for someone like her, and a lot of effort when she could’ve spent a lot less time just setting up explosives or sniping you guys with wolfsbane ‘til you dropped. I mean, I don’t see her exactly wanting to give people like Scott some kind of back to humanity redemption arc…”

He watches Peter flex his fingers pointedly, and trails off.

“Oh.”

 _Oh._ He gets it. This isn’t about the other turned wolves. Or even a vendetta against the Hales.

There were other people the Hales turned, people Kate actually cares about. Like herself, like her father.

Scott blanches around the same time, catching on faster than usual and sliding off the hood of the car, the phone falling from his knee like he forgot it was there. He doesn’t stoop to retrieve it, just stands in the center of the staring group, looking as pale and shaky as Stiles has spent the last month or so feeling. It’s enough for Stiles to forget the phone, to forget his own revelations, to step forward and reach out to grab his friend’s arm.

“Scott, hey, what’s…”

But Scott jerks back before Stiles can touch him, eyes going wildly to Malia, more wildly to Peter, before he shakes his head and backs away from the car, breathing what looks like a slew of sub-vocal apologies before darting away and disappearing down the quiet street.

And Stiles just stares after, his arm still outstretched because… what the hell?

.-

Scott comes back after twenty minutes or so – Stiles had almost organized a search party but Peter stopped him, stating that Scott hadn’t gone far, that he could still hear him prowling the nearby streets, the building-tops, seeming rattled but certainly not in danger or injured.

When he comes back his hair is a wreck from constantly raking hands, and he doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes or explain the way he bolted. He just stoops and scoops up his phone from the pavement before slinking into the driver’s seat, drawing in a breath, and saying that they should be moving to the next site in a voice that’s too thin and too high.

It’s a tone Stiles knows well, a tone he’s heard a thousand times over the years, a tone he knows he’s been the cause of more than once (more than 50% of the time, if he’s being honest). It’s Scott’s painfully guilty voice, the “I’ve done or I’m thinking of doing something that’ll get me grounded and possibly arrested” voice. Stiles settles into the backseat beside Lydia and spends the hours until dawn staring at the back of his friend’s head, trying to work out what the hell Scott has to feel guilty about.

He doesn’t remember Derek– that he’d been drifting in the echoes of New York, in the memory of the sister he'd lost, alone – until well after the sky’s light, and suddenly Stiles is the one feeling wracked with guilt.

He didn’t want Derek to be alone, he’d wanted to be there for him in what might (won’t… but _might_ ) end up being his last days, and then he’d gotten wrapped up in his own drama and completely forgotten…

Crap.

The bite might cure Scott, and now suddenly he’s feeling guilty about something, shooting furtive glances at Malia and Peter like he’s sizing them up for something.

Like he’s weighing the risk/reward of it?

But no. Because Scott wouldn’t. Because he’s _Scott._

But Stiles remembers how desperate Scott had been for it last spring, how often he’d complained about how being a werewolf had ruined his life. He thinks about how much crap Scott’s been forced to live through ever since he’d turned… all that he's dealt with and been responsible for and lost. And all at once Stiles isn’t sure that everyone’s on the same side of the rescue mission anymore.


	8. Master Plan

Stiles is in Scott’s face the second they’re out of the car.

“What the _hell_ , Scott? What was that? You can’t seriously…”

But Scott’s pushing past him with hooded eyes – a blank, unreadable look he’d never been able to pull off in the old days, in the days before the Nogitsune mess, before he’d become Alpha.

“You should go to sleep, Stiles. Be with Derek, keep him company. He shouldn’t have to…” He cuts himself off, shaking his head.

Stiles’ gut twists.

“I don’t have to,” he says, stalking forward. “Because I’ll see him after we save him, right Scott? That’s what you’ve been saying. We’re going to save him.”

But Scott’s shoulders just slump, back still to Stiles.

“He shouldn’t be alone.” And then Scott’s jerking into motion, scaling the side of the abandoned church in a series of ridiculous leaps, before tucking himself in at the edge of a the steeple, high above anything a lowly human would ever be able to reach without some serious ladder assists.

Stiles scowls up at the distant shadow of his friend, hands clenching, unclenching at his sides.

Because… because he thought he _knew_ Scott. Knew everything about him, in the way that only a lifelong friend could. And Scott was… yeah, maybe he was a little oblivious at times, a little bit self-involved in a way that only hormones and a really amazing romantic life (Stiles is speculating here, he doesn’t exactly have a wealth of experience in that area) could generate. But one thing he _knew_ about Scott was that his friend was basically Captain America. He’d totally crash his plane into the ocean to save a city full of strangers; he’d do anything and everything humanly possible to help other people, even if it meant a major sacrifice on his own part.

Was he seriously considering letting the Hales die so he could be cured?

“Screw you, Scott,” he mutters, stalking back to the car and grabbing his nearly-empty bottle of Nyquil, taking a swig before he can really think about it. “We’re talking about this; somewhere you can’t get away from it.”

.-

_He’s never been in another mind besides Derek’s and his own. He’d never really considered that it would feel so different to be in someone else’s head, but in hindsight it kind of makes sense._

_Scott’s brain is a lot more disjointed than Derek’s – the backdrops around them shifting constantly, a wall in one place one second and completely gone the next, background players’ faces shifting, morphing from classmates to TV characters and back in a way that Stiles would kind of love to catalogue and study, to see if it’s random or if Scott’s brain is making any kind of legitimate connections between people from econ and the cast of Jersey Shore._

_But he’s definitely not in the mood right now, and Stiles adjusts to the ever-shifting landscape as best as he can, trailing down hallways of the high school-slash-Scott’s house-slash-the supermarket in search of his friend. He can’t be far; Stiles has always shown up in Derek’s dreams fairly close to the dreamer. He doesn’t think a dreamscape really stretches that far past what the source can see._

_So it’s only after about half a dozen confusing turns that he ends up stumbling into a shadowed warehouse that seems to have the Hale house’s broken staircase in one corner, Deaton’s examining tables scattered about the room, and about three inches of fine black sand coating the entire floor. Scott’s standing at the center of it all, looking like he isn’t sure where to move. Every shift of his foot makes him grimace, like he’s wary of his own footprints._

_He looks up before Stiles says anything._

_“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, lips twisting in a way Scott’s lips should never twist, pained and self-deprecating. Stiles almost wonders if he ended up in the wrong brain after all, if – despite his best concentration and efforts – he’s ended up back with Derek again._

_But it’s still his friend’s face, not Derek's, and Scott’s expression is really just a more vulnerable version of what he’s been wearing since Deaton’s phone call._

_More open, more honest. The way people are in dreams._

_“You should be with Derek,” Scott says next, which pretty much cements the whole Actually in Scott’s Head theory (he’d feel more psyched about expanding his dream powers beyond Derek visits if he wasn’t busy feeling worried, pissed, and just generally confused because…)_

_“What the hell, Scott? I have to literally burrow into your brain to get a conversation with you now? This is not how we function.”_

_The sand at his feet flickers and changes to bright gold, and for a second Stiles gets the impression of a lumpy sandcastle standing proudly at Scott’s feet. It’s an old sign of friendship, nostalgically familiar in a way that makes Stiles’ heart clench. He and Scott don’t_ do _mad at each other. Not in any way that lasts. But then the sand bleeds back to black again, and Scott’s turning away from him, and Stiles feels like the ground between them is shaky in a way that has nothing to do with the loose earth._

_“I just needed some space, dude. That whole…” Scott throws out an arm, signaling the phone call, the day, everything, “It messed up my head a little.”_

_The best friend, the brother, the Robin to Scott’s Batman, just wants to nod and give Scott whatever space he needs. But there’s too much at stake, and Stiles feels himself stepping further into the cluttered, confused (oddly familiar?) mess of a warehouse, feet slipping across the dark sand as he moves._

_“Scott, I need to know we’re still on the same page in all this. I didn’t even… I mean, your mom knows now and is okay with it, and Kira’s a freaking kitsune and definitely doesn’t have any issues with the whole wolf factor, and you’ve been on this whole Be a Better Alpha track for a while now and I thought…”_

_Scott’s turned to stare back at Stiles, head tilting in that same, wolfy way Derek’s does when he’s confused, except of course on Scott it just makes him look like an adorable floppy puppy._

_“Stiles, what are you talking about?”_

_He takes a slow breath._

_“I didn’t think you even wanted to be cured anymore, man. I really thought you were good with the whole werewolf thing.”_

_The room reacts more than Scott does, the black sand underfoot rolling so that it’s suddenly hard to stand, and the echoes of voices - familiar voices shouting words that Stiles can’t place - bounce off the walls in a way that would completely freak Stiles out if he wasn’t used to it from Derek’s guilt-ridden nightmares._

_“Scott, don’t._ Don’t _!”_

_Amidst the clamor of voices, Stiles can pick out Derek, gruff in a way that does nothing to hide his fear._

_The clinic’s tables melt out of existence and the Hale house stairs seem to shift into a familiar spiral staircase before bleeding back into their original, charred shape. Stiles’ jeep is standing where a table used to be, and a familiar dent in the hood suddenly brings into sharp relief where they are. Stiles feels stupid for not recognizing the space earlier._

_The black sand at his feet isn’t_ sand _._

_Scott’s expression is blank, still, shock-numbed._

_“Dude, you think… how could you think… I don’t want the cure, Stiles. Even if I wouldn’t have to let people die for it… I mean, I haven’t wanted it for ages. I think I only ever wanted it in the first place because I was scared, and for Allison…” The room flickers and darkens, but luckily that thought-thread snaps before the dreamscape can shift into a scene Stiles desperately doesn’t want to think about. “I mean, yeah, there’s a ton of crap in our lives, now, but it would be out there anyway, even if I was human. And I’m better since I got the bite. Not just the strength and the asthma stuff. I’m like… a better person, I think. I can do more good this way.”_

_Which was exactly where Stiles_ thought _his friend’s head was at, so none of the past day makes any sense… until Scott winces and looks down, kicking his foot out through the mound of mountain ash that used to be a sandcastle._

_“At least… I thought. But I screwed up, Stiles.”_

_“Scott, don’t.”_

_“When it comes to survival, I’d kill my own son.“_

_“He’s going to kill me right after.”_

_“I had a plan too.”_

_The voices are trying to tell Stiles something, the warehouse where they’d saved Jackson, the mountain ash coating the floor. It’s all signals, signs, the way Derek’s gravestones and the pool and the basketball court had been. He never thought he’d find it harder to read his best friend’s brain than Derek’s._

_“Scott… what the hell are you talking about?”_

_“You might be an Alpha…”_

_“You’re the only piece that doesn’t fit, Derek.”_

_“Why didn’t you tell me?”_

_“…But you’re not mine.”_

_Stiles winces at the new onslaught of voices: Scott, Gerard Argent, Derek, Scott. Bruising words, unfamiliar but readily placeable. He knows what Scott’s mind is stuck on, even if he’s still not sure why._

_But if Stiles winces, Scott_ flinches _. A full-body flinch, hands twitching toward the sides of his head like he wants to shut them out, but can’t quite let himself. The guilt’s tearing across his features again._

 _“It’s_ me _, don’t you get it? This is all me, my fault. This night, right here… I thought I was being so clever.”_

_“I had a plan too.”_

_Scott winces at the echo of his own voice._

_“It’s the whole reason Derek’s captured. I’m supposed to be some great true Alpha but it’s my fault the whole Hale family, who knows how many packs, is about to get wiped out. And Derek’s been kidnapped and tortured for months because I held him still, right here, and forced him to bite Gerard.”_

_Stiles stares long after Scott stops speaking. Of all the things he’d expected… he didn’t really know what he’d expected, besides maybe some freshly sprung “to be or not to be a werewolf” angst, but this definitely hadn’t been it._

_Scott doesn’t_ do _guilt. Not that he doesn’t feel bad about things sometimes, because he's a good guy so of course he does, but he doesn’t do the deep broody angsting thing, the retreating into himself and beating himself up the way someone like Derek does. The way sometimes Stiles does._

 _Scott talks to people. He talks to_ Stiles. _Constantly. About everything._

_And the fact that he couldn’t talk about this is weird, and kind of scary/uncomfortable in a way Stiles isn’t sure he wants to think about because suddenly he’s not Scott’s go to sounding board and what the hell does that mean for their friendship?_

_So he ignores the wounded voice in his head wondering why he had to claw his way into Scott’s brain to hear this, missing time he could’ve spent with Derek (and he’s closing in on something there, something raw and rough and not real enough yet to think about), and focuses on his friend’s pain head on._

_“Dude… there’s no way you can blame yourself for this. Kate would’ve still been a were-whatever, even if you hadn’t turned Gerard…”_

_Scott snorts and his voice, cool and the littlest bit smug, echoes around the room._

_“…Gerard always had a plan…”_

_“Come on,” says the real Scott (the current Scott, the conscious-level of Scott, because really everything going on down to the ash staining Stiles’ dream-shoes is_ Scott _at some level). “You know this whole cure thing came from Gerard. Kate’s like a total warrior woman but she’s not the schemer. And Gerard didn’t have a problem with becoming a werewolf, so I doubt Kate cares she’s a whatever she is now. She’s probably loving the whole, you know, using the enemy’s power against them thing.” And Scott had definitely been reading too many history and strategy books as a part of his new super-Alpha leader kick, because that actually makes sense. Of course Kate would be happy about using a were's power against them, the hypocrite. Scott grimaces._

 _“She’s only doing this cure thing because I got Gerard coughing up mountain ash for the rest of his life. If this was about her she would've gone after Peter, not Derek. She’s killing the Hales to save her dad._ I _did this.”_

_He kicks at the ash again, violently, and it floats up and drifts across the room in a way gravity really shouldn’t allow. Stiles watches it float for a few seconds, then looks back to Scott._

_“Ok, maybe. But… dude, you couldn’t have known any of this. True Alpha doesn’t make you psychic, and I mean, you weren’t even any kind of Alpha when this all went down. Derek…” he trails off, remembering the fear and betrayal in the echoes of Derek’s voice, remembering the way Scott and Derek had shut each other out for the first part of the summer while Scott focused on his whole self-improvement kick and Derek tried to track Boyd and Erica. “Derek wasn’t your responsibility,” he says finally, and it’s true enough. “You guys didn’t even like each other. None of us liked each other, not like we do now.”_

_“Not like you do now,” Scott echoes, a little sad, a little guilty, and maybe even a little bitter._

_And seriously,_ when _had Scott become a bitter person? When did Scott start feeling guilty or lonely or isolated or_ any _of that? Had it happened at some point while Stiles was dreaming? While Scott ran down pointless leads in the waking world and Stiles spent three-fourths of every day unconscious, trying to contact Derek?_

_Had it happened earlier? The first dream, Derek’s abduction, had taken place less than two weeks after Allison. Less than two weeks after the Nogitsune mess, Stiles always thought, in classic, selfish, “why can’t my life catch a goddamn break for five seconds” fashion… but when he thought about Life In Terms of Scott, well… less than two weeks after Allison. Maybe five days after Isaac had decided to hightail it out of the country with Mr. Argent to go lose himself or find himself or whatever you did when you fled to Europe in a haze of grief. And now Scott had left his mom and his new girlfriend behind to hold down the fort in Beacon Hills, while he scoured Mexico aimlessly and Stiles pretty much completely ignored him in favor of downing mouthfuls of whatever might help him sleep longer so he could spend time with Derek._

_Shit, Stiles has been giving himself crap about being useless at comforting Derek; he’s barely spared a thought for how Scott might be dealing after losing his first love. The girl he’d spent the better part of a year thinking he was destined to be with. He’s such a crap friend, just all around._

_“We,” Stiles corrects after way too long a pause, lifting his hand, directing it out in some kind of lopsided triangle indicating to himself, Scott, and an empty piece of air to his left signifying Derek. “We all… you know, like each other. I mean, you’ve gotta know things have changed."_

_"I know they have," Scott says in a way that still sounds a little sad and a lot like he's missing the point entirely. Stiles frowns and pushes forward._

_"'Cause after everything… Derek’s totally got your back, man. Or you know, he would, assuming he wasn’t chained in some creepy dark room awaiting a ritualistic sacrifice. And he knows you’ve got his, that you’re doing your best to come for him. And I… I suck, Scott, I get that, but I’m here too, you know? I’m always here.”_

_“_ You’re _here?” Scott seems incredulous and Stiles winces because, right, ok, he deserves some cold shoulder after basically blowing Scott off for weeks. But then: “You’ve been through so much shit, Stiles. What the Nogitsune did to you and now you’ve got this whole thing with Derek and… I just… I don’t want you to lose him too, man.”_

 _Stiles is already nodding, throat tight, before he registers the weirdness of Scott suggesting that Derek’s somehow_ his _to lose. And he really doesn’t even feel like arguing._

_Which is..._

_Scott’s frowning down at the ground, and when Stiles follows his eyes he finds that it’s_ ground _again – a cracked cement floor, the sea of ash totally gone._

 _“So you don’t hate me?”_ _Scott sounds like he's really not sure, like he's been freaking out all this time because he thought Stiles would blame_  him _or something._

 _“Dude, that’s my line. I’ve been total narcolepsy man and I should’ve made time for, you know.” For best friend grieving time. For making sure Scott was ok, which he obviously isn’t. “I mean, I’ve left you with_ Peter _for company.”_

_Scott snorts, and the walls of the warehouse are shifting and fading, becoming something more familiar: Scott’s living room. Stiles ignores the pang of homesickness and takes it as a good sign. It relaxes him, just the illusion of being here. But he can't help pushing it a little._

_“I mean, why would_ I _hate_ you _? Totally irrational Derek-Gerard guilt aside.”_

_Scott grimaces, toeing the carpet._

_“For… you know, for not doing more. For letting Derek stay lost for this long. For basically putting it on you to figure everything out while I drive around being useless.”_

_Stiles snorts._

_“Dude, you’re not useless. I’m just the long-range radio, ok? You’re the cavalry. The big guns. You’re totally the one who’s gonna save Derek, we’re just not up to that part yet.”_

_Scott laughs, and it sounds almost like normal Scott again. Stiles rolls his eyes._

_“My god, the both of you. Between Derek all big soft eyes and_ trusting _me and you going Broody-Guilt Trip Man it’s like...”_

_Scott’s lips twitch. He side-eyes Stiles like there’s some deeper joke he’s not quite getting._

_“So Derek ‘trusts’ you?”_

_“Dude, he’s like a giant puppy some nights. Dreams make people weird, is all I’m saying.”_

_Scott starts to grin back, but then something in his face freezes. He glances around the room (they’re back in the warehouse for a second, and Scott’s brain is dizzying, seriously. Stiles can’t help wondering what his own looks like to an outsider) before meeting Stiles’ eyes, hesitant._

_“Actually, that might… you’re in my dream, Stiles.”_

_Stiles arches his brows._

_“Dude, you just catching onto that?”_ _And earns a scoff for his sarcasm._

_“No, duh, I mean… you’ve never gone into anyone’s else’s before. Wasn’t really sure you could.”_

_“Me neither. But,” he lifts his arms, a silent_ ta-da _! And Scott grins back. They're in Scott’s living room, Scott's acting like Scott again. It seems almost normal, and Stiles spends a moment savoring it. Good thing too, because a second later Scott's back to looking nervous_ _._

_“So if you can come into mine... Look, dude, I think I have an idea. Maybe it’s really stupid, but--”_

_“Scott, the only thing stupid about your ideas is not running them by me ahead of time. Which, if you do now, fixes the problem, so.”_

_Scott still looks hesitant, and they're in a warehouse, they're on the roof of the hospital, but he shakes his head and they're back in his living room. His face smoothes out and he nods. Slipping into Alpha mode._

_…No, slipping into_ Scott _mode._

_“Ok, because I know how we’re going to find Derek before the deadline.”_

_There's a flutter in Stiles' chest that feels like hope. He swallows around it, going for relaxed and positive and confident._

_“Awesome, dude. Share.”_

_Scott grins._

_“Ok, so you’re the radio, right? We’re just gonna switch stations.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update so soon?? Crazy, I know.  
> Sorry for the lack of Derek in this chapter, but we needed poor Scott to get through his issues and back on track.
> 
> All quotes used in Scott's "echoes" and the title of this chapter come from the season 2 finale.


	9. In the Forests...

It’s kind of brilliant and kind of stupid and kind of terrifying all at the same time. It could go so, so badly or it could solve all their problems. Basically, it’s a classic Scott McCall plan, and Stiles couldn’t be prouder.

Even if he is the one lying down, getting ready to slip into Kate Argent’s sleeping brain.

“You’re sure about this?” Scott’s hovering above him, looking tense.

“Sure I’m sure. Dude, seriously. Why didn’t we do this sooner is my question.” Because really though, hanging out in Derek’s head had its perks, but it might be the _worst_ place to be to actually find out useful information. Derek’s generally tied up, generally half-conscious.

Kate though. Kate.

He needs to be thinking about Kate.

“Do we know he’ll even be able to?” Malia’s saying, distantly. And really, Malia, _now?_ Now’s a terrible time to start second guessing their plan. “He knows Scott and Derek really well, but…”

“We won’t know until we know.” This from Lydia, practical as usual. “He has some control over where he goes; hopefully it’ll be enough.”

It better be enough; the plan’s already in motion. All that’s left is waiting for the drugs to kick in, waiting to conk out like a light, watching Scott stare down at him like he wants to jump in after and thinking dreamy thoughts about Kate Argent.

Stiles grins up at Scott, who’s starting to swim around above him as his vision blurs.

“I’m totally Isabel.” Scott just looks worried, like he thinks Stiles has actually forgotten his own name (and gender) and Stiles snorts, reaching up to try and poke a heavy finger at his friend’s nose. He’s pretty sure he misses the mark by about a foot and a half. “ _Roswell_ , Scotty. I’m totally a hot badass alien who dreams into people’s dreams. Weird, right? I always thought of me more as an Alex. Or a Maria. _Dude,_ maybe I can spin a CD on my ear too. Does anyone have a CD?”

Scott frowns like Stiles’ words confuse him, and maybe they hadn’t come out right because his whole head is feeling heavy, because the industrial strength drugs Peter’d procured for them from some seriously shifty people are hitting him in full force now.

There’s no way he would’ve been able to fall asleep thinking about Kate without some serious help. The idea of her, of this whole situation, kind of leaves him hyper-alert with terror on a good day. Of course the drugs also mean he won’t be able to wake up easily. He’ll be stuck in Kate Argent’s head for a while.

And if you die in a dream…

If you die in a dream…

(He still hasn’t told Scott about that part, and he’s suddenly grateful for the lack of recent heart-to-hearts because there’s no way Scott would have let him get stuck in Kate’s brain if he knew the risks.)

He feels his heart racing as the room swims around him, feels himself clawing for consciousness, on the edge of a panic attack even as he slips under because _crap_ , what is he doing _?_ Kate’s a were-jaguar, she’s gonna kill Stiles the second she sees him and he’s gonna die, he’s gonna fucking die in Kate’s brain and never wake up and no one but Peter will know why and...

He’ll never get a chance to say goodbye.

Distantly, a hand comes down to rest on his shoulder.

“Don’t screw up,” a voice breathes into his ear. The chest-clawing panic eases slightly, and then—

_Jaguar, jaguar burning bright…_

_He’s in a forest, and it’s night._

_Stalking, hunting. Of course they’re hunting._

_Kate’s mind is sharply focused – more a predator’s mind than Derek’s had ever been. Every leaf, bramble, patch of unsettled earth is a point of focus, consideration. The hateful moon hangs high and round through the naked trees._

_Hateful; the ally of his enemies. But helpful too. It lets him see where its absence would blind him. It makes the wolves mad and savage and careless._

_Stiles isn’t Stiles. He barely remembers Stiles. He’s a hunter. He wants to kill, to bask in his enemies’ failures, to protect the innocent from themselves whether they like it or not, to do whatever needs doing to keep his family strong._

_\--_

_They’re in a room that smells of blood and ash and death._

_He’s kneeling at his father’s side, watching him cough up black blood into a stained handkerchief, gut twisting in horror, in rage. He should have prevented this. He_ could _have prevented it, years ago, if he hadn’t been foolish, hadn’t given in to a spark of… what? Sentimentality?_

_\--_

_He’s pressed against Derek, pinning his hips and dragging long, hungry kisses into his skin. Grinning at the way the boy gasps and twists against the mattress, so inexperienced, so trusting, barely concealing his unnatural strength as he practically lifts them both with each desperate arch._

_“Kate… fuck, Kate…”_

_“You like that, baby?”_

_Derek’s just an assignment, but definitely the most delicious mark he's had the pleasure to unravel. He wonders what the wolf will look like when he’s had a few more years to finish growing into himself._

_…Except he won’t grow up, will he? Derek’s already let so much slip; the plan’s nearly in place. Kate just has to decide when to act, when all the Hales will be gathered at home and then… then the game's over._

_“You’ve got basketball ‘til six tomorrow, don’t you?”_

_Derek nods, a little breathless, slitting his eyes open and turning to look up hazily._

_“Yeah, but we can get together after. Or during. If you want to meet at the school again I can slip out.”_

_He shakes his head, smirking. Deciding. After all, what’s a predator if all the prey are gone, right? And what harm could this one really do? Just a toy, about to be broken, already wrapped, strapped, pinned around Kate’s little finger._

_“I’ll be busy with something tomorrow. And then I think you will be too.”_

_He'll let the game go on a little longer. He leans in to kiss Derek again…_

_\--_

_He’s… he’s… he’s coming back to himself, a little. He’s Stiles,_ Stiles, n _ot Kate. Her mind is powerful, sharp, both direct and cluttered. Overwhelming. But he remembers now. He’s Stiles; he’s not her. These are her memories._

_\--_

_He’s dragging a knife down Derek’s… no._ Kate’s _dragging a knife down Derek’s chest, trailing down a familiar path her tongue traced a dozen times, years ago. Even after all this time, he’s her favorite toy._

_She can’t wait until she can plunge the knife straight into his heart._

_\--_

_But where are they? Where are they?_

Kate, where are you?

\--

_She senses a boy’s presence, and her mind seizes upon it the way it seizes on every detail, big or small. Catches it, examines it and dismisses it, because it’s just the Sheriff’s son – the boy whose name Derek murmurs in his most restless dreams. (And isn’t that a joke: Derek wanting what he can’t have, as always. The wolf and the Sheriff’s son. The monster and the boy.) That’s why she’s thinking of him now._

_He hardly matters._

_\--_

_Kate’s clawing her way out of the earth, gasping in mouthfuls of dirt, scratching until her nails break, her hands bleed._

_But she’ll survive this, this waking up buried beneath the earth. She’s been trained to survive worse, and feels stronger than she ever has. Like there’s a new power coursing through her veins…_

_\--_

_Chris is standing outside the burnt remnants of her masterpiece, the Hale house, staring at her like she’s one of the monsters they hunt._

_Poor big brother. He’s always been too soft for this life._

_\--_

_And Stiles is still coming back to himself. He doesn’t know if it’s the drugs or the pressure of Kate’s powerful mind or something else entirely that’s flung him so deep into her subconscious that he can’t even differentiate himself from her. But he’s clawing his way out of it. He almost feels like his own person._

_“Kate, where are you?”_

_\--_

_“Where are we?”_

_Derek’s skin is gaunt and sallow, his eyes barely opening. But there’s a bite to his tone that never fully goes away, not when he’s drugged to the point of oblivion, not when the electrodes are strapped to his side and his flesh is a mess of slowly fading marks. His words echo the boy’s. The half-formed boy that Kate can sense and taste more than she can hear or see. Like he’s living inside her skin._

_“What’s the point of this, Kate? There are easier ways to kill.”_

_She smirks up at Derek, at the edge of telling him, but she wants her knife in his chest when she says it:_ for my father, Derek, for what you did to him. _The knowledge that he’s healing the Argent clan, restoring their strength and purity with his own miserable death._

_“Kate,” the half-visible boy, the Sheriff’s son, snaps from her elbow. “Where are you?”_

_\--_

_Jaguar, jaguar, burning bright._

_They’re in a forest. It’s still night._

_Kate’s trained mind picks up every detail. Picks up the brambles, the uneven earth, the broken remains of old stonework, statues worn by time. The edges where the ground doesn’t quite_ fit _right, where the soil has been hastily pushed to cover something rectangular underneath._

_A trapdoor, beneath the remains of an ancient temple._

_“But where is that, Kate? Where are you?”_

_\--_

_The boy is almost real. Kate can make him out now – his hair longer than it had been when she knew him._

_She has a trained mind. She picks up the details._

_Why would he look older? Why would his hair be different? Why is he_ here _? It’s wrong, it doesn’t fit… and she doesn’t like it._

_Her hands curve into claws, and she snarls._

_\--_

_There are things Kate knows like she knows to draw in air:_

_Symbols of power are hugely important in magic: pentagrams, triquetras, crosses._

_If you can, in any battle, use your enemies' strengths against them._

_The strongest point in anything is the center._

_\--_

_Something’s wrong. The Sheriff's boy means nothing to her. He shouldn’t be here, so prominent in her mind. An intruder._

_She_ feels _him. She doesn’t understand, but she can’t risk it. Better safe than sorry._

_If he appears again, she’ll kill him._

_\--_

_Stiles is himself again, is whole and separate and tangible in the shifting scenes of Kate’s imagination. The way he always was in Derek’s mind. In Scott’s. He’s standing beside her, behind her, as she stalks and prowls through the landscapes of her memories. She’d ignored him at first, but now when her eyes fall on him it’s with distrust, with anger._

_Her mind screams_ intruder _and it doesn’t like the sound._

 _Danger,_ danger, _run rabbit run…_

_But Stiles can’t wake himself, can’t pull himself out of the drug-haze, and Kate’s advancing on him, stalking him through the forests of her mind… and he’s going to die here. He’s going to be killed in a dream and never get a chance to tell the others what he knows (because he does know now, he knows where they are and it feels so obvious that he’s an idiot for not seeing the pattern sooner). He’s going to die and leave Derek to the ritual at Kate’s hands._

_At least now he won’t have to kill him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keeping up my streak of one post a day.
> 
> Hopefully this wasn't TOO confusing. This dream experience was definitely a different one for Stiles.
> 
> On Kate - I've just never been able to reconcile the fact that she would know Derek's schedule more than anyone but somehow he wasn't in the house when it lit. Unless she wanted to keep her toy alive and torture him a little longer.


	10. Howl

_She leaps at him like a thing out of a nightmare._

_Which, haha. Ha. Right._

_She is._

_There’s a split-second of blinding terror, of no time to move, this is it, why the hell is she blue and oh god those teeth look sharp goodbye Dad Scott **Derek** —_

_“Stiles!”_

_He hears his name, then there's a sound like a wolf’s howl - familiar, pack,_ home _– and a jerk of motion, like he’s falling. Everything goes hazy. His head feels like it’s being split open except he barely feels like he_ has _a head anymore._

_He can’t move. Everything hurts. Is this what it feels like to be dead?_

_“What was that, sweetheart? I thought you’d given up howling for your pack. Thought you realized by now they won’t come.”_

_It’s Kate, her voice distant, mocking. Is this another memory? It feels… different. The world too bright, overexposed._

_There’s a long pause, and Stiles tries to remember what it’s like to have limbs. He feels heavy, buzzing everywhere. He feels… angry, vindictive, impatient, and underneath it all, just amused enough, aroused enough, to keep things interesting._

_And he has no idea what the hell’s going on._

_Then Derek’s voice filters through his panicking mind: “You’ve woken me up enough times, Kate. Figured it was about time to return the favor.”_

_His voice is low, rough, with an edge of confusion that Stiles latches onto like a lifeline because somehow Derek being confused makes Stiles feel marginally better about being totally lost._

_But... is this Derek? Or is this Kate’s dream version of Derek?_

_No, this feels different than a dream – more painful, brighter. (Too bright, and a total bitch on his headache, ow, but hey! If he’s being blinded that means his eyes are working, right?) It’s the same as it’d been when he’d been in Derek’s waking mind a week back._

_So… what? Kate had woken up? And dragged Stiles along with her?_

_Waking up had always signaled a parting of ways between him and Derek. The jolt or slow drift of Derek waking had always woken Stiles too. But now, maybe because he was deeper under, maybe because the drugs were keeping him unconscious, he hadn’t been able to detach, had been pulled into the waking world right along with Kate._

_And fuck… Kate’s impulses are so strong in him now. He wants to slice Derek open. Wants to forget the knife and dig his claws right into Derek’s chest…_

_That thought – sick and painful and bloody – is enough to force him into motion. He drags himself to his knees and squints across the too-bright cellar in time to see Kate smirk and press a hand against Derek’s abs instead, thumb trailing right along his bottom rib. He feels the pressure ghost across his own hand – a rush of heat, of pleasure at the taut muscle, at the way Derek jumps and tenses, his heart rate picking up. Stiles can hear Derek’s heartbeat through Kate’s ears, can smell the fear and hopeless frustration and despair hanging off him._

_The proud wolf broken, smelling like prey._

_Stiles swallows down a pained sound. He’s connected to Kate; if he makes a noise, she’ll notice him. If he moves, she’ll notice him. Kate leans in close, breathing:_

_“What’s wrong, Der? Not sleeping well? Did even your little dream savior finally give up on you?”_

_He can barely make Derek out, just an overexposed outline of taut muscle and too many ribs showing, but he feels the way Derek stiffens against Kate’s palm. She chuckles._

_“I saw him in my dreams tonight, you know. I was seconds from tearing his chest open when you howled.”_

_Derek jolts to stare at Kate, and Stiles can smell his confusion, his shock, before his voice even betrays it._

_“…What?”_

_“Like you’re looking out for even a fake, fantasy version of him. It’d be adorable if it weren’t so damn pathetic.”_

_And that’s too bizarre to be a coincidence, isn’t it? That Derek had felt the urge to howl, for whatever reason, when Stiles was a heartbeat away from dying? That he’d woken up Kate at just the right time, like some part of him had known?_

_“...Stiles was in your dream?”_

_Clearly not the conscious part of him._

_But Stiles can hear him piecing it together, can feel it in the way Derek’s heart catches and pounds faster against Kate’s palm. Kate can sense everything Stiles does (obviously – the information’s coming from her), but she doesn’t know enough to get what it means._

_“Getting jealous of a dream, Der? I know I’ve had you chained down here on your own for a while, but that’s a new level of sad, even for you.”_

_“Did you hurt him?”_

_She laughs a little, short and incredulous. Derek snarls._

_“Fine, I’m pathetic and delusional and on my way to a complete mental break, but you need me around so you might as well indulge me. It was a dream; I don’t care. Kate, did you hurt him?”_

_She takes stock of him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face, her hand moving up to cup his nape almost fondly. The sensation leaves Stiles’ hand tingling, his jaw jumping nervously, as Kate leans in to breathe against Derek’s ear._

_“You know, I really hope you are as delusional as you sound. I hate to kill humans, but if a wolf sympathizer does show up trying to save you, he won’t live long enough to regret his mistake.”_

_Derek’s trembling – exhaustion, weak limbs and anger – and Kate laughs against his ear just to feel the full body shudder._

_“He’s not coming,” Derek mutters, and Stiles hears a strange flutter, a hitch in the rabbiting drumbeat filling the room. But he doesn’t quite get it until Kate chuckles, pulling back._

_“Lie,” she sing-songs. “You actually think your little human and his makeshift pack give a damn what happens to you. Oh, baby… haven’t you learned by now that your instincts aren’t exactly the sharpest?”_

_“You mean like when I thought you were a decent person?”_

_She falls back a step, seething anger that doesn’t show through her mask of sickeningly sweet calm. And Stiles is still on his knees on the floor, tense and half-panicked, a mess of riled emotions that are and aren’t his. He wants to reassure Derek, hit Derek, taunt, soothe, comfort, kiss, kill—_

_Torment._

_Kate moves forward again, grabs Derek’s hair in a bruising grip and presses their lips together. Stiles feels it go through him like fire, feels Derek try to jerk away, hears the attempt at a snarl that escapes more as a startled whimper. It’s savage and fast and Kate pulls back before Derek gets his senses back enough to attempt a bite. He growls and arches against the chains, snapping at her as she dances back, grinning._

_“You’re going to die in two days, Derek. You should start making peace with that.”_

_“STILES!”_

_His body jolts with a sudden pressure, like he’s being shaken. He sees Kate stiffen and frown, like she felt it too._

_“Come on man. Come on…”_

_It’s Scott’s voice, distant and distorted, like he’s shouting through water. Stiles feels himself jolt again, sees Kate glance up toward the ceiling, teeth bared in a snarl. And then_ Scott’s standing over him, staring down like he hasn’t moved since Stiles fell asleep.

His expression’s definitely more panicked now, though.

And Stiles feels heavy, dizzy and sick – the drugs in his system are seriously not appreciating the rude awakening – and he rolls to his side and vomits onto the floor, nearly rolling straight into it until Scott catches his shoulder, steadying him.

“What…” he groans, coughing. “What…?”

Scott’s grip on his arm is tight to the point of painful, and when he smacks at the hand Scott loosens his grip just barely, clearing his throat.

“I felt this tug in my head a couple minutes ago. I don’t even know how to describe it, like something latched onto my brain and was pulling it like a rubber band. It almost knocked me out, and I… I heard you say my name. Then like a few seconds later your dad called, and dude you’re gonna want to call him back and tell him you’re ok because he was freaking…” Scott trails off, glancing from Stiles to the puddle of sick on the floor. “I mean, you are ok, right?”

Scott had “heard” Stiles? And… his dad?

He grimaces.

“Kate attacked me. Or… almost attacked me. I…”

He’d thought of Scott, his dad. Derek. How he’d wanted to see them one more time, to say goodbye. His mind must’ve reached out… and they’d heard him.

He feels beyond drained, mind aching like it’d been forced to run suicides for an hour straight. His brain will never be able to walk again. …Or something. Shut up, he’s too tired for good metaphors.

He slumps back onto his makeshift bed in the pew of the old church, catching sight of Scott frowning before his eyes drift shut.

“I need to…”

“Sleep, yeah.” Scott’s hand is still firm on Stiles’ arm, grounding him. “Just… stay in your own head for now, ok?”

He nods slightly. Like that’s gonna be a problem. He doesn’t think his consciousness can handle any more trips at the moment.

Sleep is slipping back over him fast, but his hand goes to clasp over Scott’s, feeling secure and safe and unreasonably giddy. A sleepy grin stretches across his face. He’d been in trouble and his superpowers had totally come through. His _pack_ had come through. His dad had called, Scott had woken him up, and…

“Derek howled for me.”

And he’d snarled at Kate to defend Stiles, and he’d been scared when he thought Stiles was hurt, and he _believed_ that Stiles was coming for him. Stiles feels fuzzy and warm and ridiculous and he’s way too tired to care, the phantom itch of Derek’s skin under his palm, his scent in his nose, and there are still so many things to worry about but for the moment everything’s awesome. Everything’s going to work out because he and his friends are all freaking superheroes and they’re gonna save Derek and kill Kate and then he’s gonna…

He’s gonna…

He’s hit with a sudden, pained sort of clarity – that sharp, understanding you only ever get when you’re dead drunk or too exhausted to fight it, that you know won’t make a bit of sense in the morning. He knows what he wants to do, and he feels like it’s been robbed from him, somehow.

“I fucking Kate-kissed Derek.”

In the distance, Scott might make a choking sound, or maybe it’s a laugh. But it's so far from funny.

He remembers the feel of Derek’s lips (tightly pressed together, angry and terrified). He remembers the sensation of Derek’s hair in his bruising grip and his chest jumping under Stiles’ palm and even the way sixteen year old Derek had arched and moaned in Kate’s dream-memory. He knows what Derek _feels_ like now, but it’s all tainted with manipulation, with fear, with _wrong_.

Something’s definitely been stolen from him, even if he won’t be able to admit what in the morning.

Despite his promise to Scott, he feels his mind reaching out for Derek.

But he’s so goddamned tired. Too tired to dream.

He spends the rest of the night in darkness.


	11. Closer

Stained glass sunlight wakes him; crimson like rage and blood and pain.

Stiles' brain still feels heavy, slow. Stretched too far too fast. Being in Kate’s mind, staying locked onto it while she woke, reaching out to Scott, Derek, and even his dad… it had all apparently been too much for one novice dreamwalker to handle.

So he lies on his back on the hard pew, savoring the slow, lazy wakeup. Watching the colors shift across him with the rising sun. Rage-red and grief-blue…

Being in Kate’s brain had been its own kind of painful.

Stiles has  _hated_ things before in his life. He’s never really been a bright, shiny person; had carried darkness in his heart long before he’d sunk into that ice-bath and bound himself to the Nemeton. And he thinks maybe what freaked him out most about feeling Kate’s emotions wasn’t how different she is from him. Because she isn’t, not really.

Yeah, she loathes all the things Stiles wants to protect. But she’s also fiercely protective, _scary_ protective. She hates the things she sees as a threat, and the lives she takes, she does for her loved ones.

When Stiles kills her, it will be for his loved ones too.

.-

Lydia’s voice filters through the space first.

“I don’t care.”

She’s coming closer, tone sharp. If they were back in Beacon Hills, Stiles is sure her heels would be clipping across the floor in a severely threatening manner. Here in Mexico, on the road, she’s been reduced to wearing flats.

And to snarking with Peter _._

“Well, then at least be angry at the one whose fault it is. It’s his problem, he should’ve mentioned.”

“ _He_ is a self-sacrificing idiot, and I’ll get to him. But _you_ knew he could be in danger and you let him go in there anyway.”

“Well he’s not dead, is he? So what I was concerned about didn’t happen.”

Lydia stops short, and Stiles’ eyes have drifted shut, but he’s sure that she’s spun to scowl at Peter. He can just see her hands tensing, fighting the urge to clench because Lydia’s nothing if not poised under pressure. Peter doesn’t back down from the glare she’s surely sending, though. His voice is light, easy.

“What? Was I supposed to abandon my nephew and my entire bloodline to torment and death? That would have made me a better person?”

Lydia just makes a faint, scoffing sound, because “Peter” and “better person” don’t grammatically fit together in the same sentence. Peter sighs.

“Your self-sacrificing idiot is awake, by the way. So feel free to berate him, instead.”

Maybe it’s the sound of other voices or the deep blue light dancing across Stiles’ eyelids, or maybe just the passage of time, but some of the heaviness in Stiles’ brain is lifting. And he’s starting to remember something he should’ve already announced last night.

Damn it, they could’ve been on the road _hours_ ago.

Lydia turns toward him, lips pressed in a scowl, but Stiles is sitting up fast and staring around the room for the small blue duffle – the one with all the maps inside.

“Guys, wait. This is important.” Lydia gives him a look like he’s just trying to avoid some very special alone time with her Disappointed Voice… which is a side bonus, yes, but doesn’t have anything to do with how much he needs to look at a map right freaking now. He remembers what he’d discovered in Kate’s mind. His eyes find Scott’s, and he grins.

“It totally worked, man. I know how to find Derek.”

.-

It was actually something that Scott had told him back in their shared dream: use your enemy’s strength against them. Seemed like Scott was dead right on that count.

It was a rough approximation, hard to make out at first, but when the group had marked out all the ritual sites they’d gotten a trace of Derek at, Stiles could see he was right. A marker and a quick game of connect the dots made it obvious to everyone.

A triskele.

Kate’s path through Mexico had been confusingly curving; an odd, jumpy mess that sometimes focused on barely existent magic sources while ignoring much more prominent ones seemingly at random. But here it was, painfully clear: she’d been visiting sites in a path that formed the Hale family symbol. Symbols are power, and she was throwing theirs right back in their faces.

And the strongest point is always at the center.

Stiles traces the curving lines with his fingers, down to the point where they connect. There’s no information about a magical nexus at the point where his fingers meet; just an old dry forest. But that makes Stiles all the more certain he’s right.

He’d dreamed of a forest. That’s where she’s been hiding.

He circles the center point, looks up, nodding.

“This is where we need to be.”

.-

His head’s still heavy as they set off in the car. Without any help from drugs, he drifts. And dreams.

 _Derek’s dreamscape is a shattered plane of conflicting images. They’re in the loft, blackened and burnt. They’re in Stiles’ bedroom, the walls covered in blood. And it somehow manages to be both these things at once. There are shapeless_ things _lurking in every shadow, and Cora’s splayed out on the ground, torn in two._

_Derek has Stiles by the shoulders the second he becomes aware of his presence, gripping him like an anchor, his shadowed face drawn, whole body taut with tension._

_“Is it you?”_

_There’s another Stiles on the ground behind Derek -- still, blue and bloated, like he’d been drowned._

_Stiles tears his gaze away from his own corpse, swallowing, nodding. Derek’s trembling, and Stiles realizes that his face isn’t shadowed; it’s bruised. There are bloody cuts across the soft red Henley his dream has summoned up for him (a small attempt at self-comfort, Stiles has seen him in it enough to peg it as one of his favorites) and he’s standing like it’s hard to stay upright._

_This is just a dream, but in a way that makes the wounds all the worse. Why the hell is Derek dreaming himself this way?_

_“Is this…” Stiles cuts himself off, reaching up as though to brush Derek’s bruised eye and thinking better of it. “Did she do this to you?”_

_Derek turns his head, like he’s trying to hide the injury. All that does is reveal a line of electrical burns down the right side of his neck._

_“She wasn’t thrilled last night, Stiles. Swore she’d heard a voice that shouldn’t be here. That she felt something invisible touch her?”_

_She’d heard Scott’s voice, felt Scott shake Stiles awake through their connection._

_Stiles shifts, dropping his gaze to a long slash up Derek’s side. In the real world it would’ve healed by now… but that doesn't mean it hadn’t hurt. The fact that Stiles is seeing it now proves that Derek’s still carrying the pain inside of him._

_“So she tortured you to find out what.”_

_“Seeing you in her dreams made her think there might be a connection, yeah.” Stiles feels sick, and it must show in his expression because Derek huffs a quiet laugh, dropping his grip on Stiles and stepping back._

_“I’ve been tortured before, Stiles.” Like that should make it any better. “And I brought the worst of it on myself. Should’ve just stayed quiet, but I kept making comments. Told her it wasn’t my fault if she was losing it. That she was a little old to still be dreaming of teenage boys.”_

_Stiles snorts, fights the urge to follow Derek forward and check his wounds. They aren’t real._

_“You’ve been hanging out with me too much.” His words are light, but Derek crosses his arms, eyes lowering._

_“Stiles, I thought you were dead.” There’s a blue-faced, drowned Stiles on the ground. Stiles’ room, covered in blood. Stiles feels a shudder rattle through him._

_“Wha… wait, why?”_

_Derek’s hands clench on his bloody biceps, his jaw tight._

_“I heard you scream my name in my mind. Felt a wrench inside me like something was snapping. Kate said_ she _heard someone shout your name, that they sounded desperate. She said she attacked you in her dream. What was I supposed to think?”_

_“I didn’t… that was just…” He cuts himself off. Derek doesn’t need a rational explanation right now. The bloody walls, the panic… he’d egged Kate on and gotten hurt more badly because of it. Because he’s thought everything was lost anyway, thought Stiles was dead and he was doomed to the ritual._

_“Hey…”_

_He moves closer, carefully, reaches out to brush a hand over Derek’s forearm. Derek follows his slow movements, still jumps like he’s surprised when he feels the contact._

_“I’m still here, Derek. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… I didn’t even know I_ could _call out like that.” Derek doesn’t move away, and Stiles allows his other hand to rest on Derek’s elbow. Tries to meet his gaze, but Derek’s staring down at his hand like he’s not sure what he’s seeing, and Stiles is pretty sure it has nothing to do with extra fingers. “You saved my life, you know. When you heard me, when you howled. It woke Kate up before she could hurt me.”_

_He wants to hug Derek, but his arms are still clenched over his chest, a tangible barrier between them._

_“You saved my life and got tortured because of it.”_

_His left hand goes up, thumb trailing across the tender red skin beside Derek’s burn. For a second Derek looks like he’s going to jerk away, but then he just lets his eyes slide closed, his expression softening into something like relief._

_“I’ve been tortured before,” he repeats, his head listing a little. Opening up under Stiles’ soothing touch. “Stiles…” It comes out soft, low, rumbling in a way that sends shivers across Stiles’ skin. There’s a tension – a_ good, _awesome, perfect kind of tension – running through him, lighting up his fingers, his chest, with tingling heat. He opens his mouth, words forming that he might not be able to take back, but Derek speaks first:_

_“Kate said there’s only two days left, and that was hours ago. I think we have to—”_

_Stiles finger slips and Derek hisses as it drags over the burn. Stiles drops his hand, stepping back._

_“Derek._ No. _”_

_Derek’s eyes flutter open, hand going up to trace the path Stiles’ thumb had just been trailing. Like he misses the contact. How long has it been since he’s felt anything but cold chains and a knife?_

_“We’re almost out of time.”_

_And Stiles can’t help it. He moves forward again, hand going to Derek’s shoulder. Derek follows the movement of his hand like before, still not moving in or away, just… warily accepting what Stiles offers. He holds his breath, trailing down Derek’s still-crossed arm, ghosting past the bloody gashes, thumb brushing along the wrist – rubbed raw from Kate’s chains in a way his werewolf healing would never allow in reality – and lingering._

_“Hey, why the hell do you think I risked going into Kate’s dreams? I almost died, remember? We’re not wasting that. We’re coming for you.”_

_“You’re always coming, Stiles. But you’re never_ here. _” It takes Stiles a second to register that Derek’s suddenly gripping his hand. He gets lost in that for a second, in the mixed bitterness of Derek’s tone and the desperation in his grip. “What makes these last two days any different?”_

_“We know where you are now.” Stiles’ tone is hard, harder than he’d intended. Probably harder than Derek deserves. But Derek’s back on his stupid, self-sacrificing spiel right when things are looking up and Stiles is seriously not going to deal with it right now. “We’re on our way to you. I’m literally in a car, being carried to ground zero as we speak, Derek. We’re not giving up.”_

_For just a second Derek’s eyes light – soft and hopeful – before Stiles can see him forcibly crush the feeling._

_“Kate’s security is up after last night. She talked about doubling the guard, and I don’t know if she meant literally, but…”_

_“But she’s on red alert, expecting trouble. Great.”_

_They stand quietly for a few seconds. There really isn’t any good way to carry on after news like that. When the weight of it all gets to be too much, Stiles blurts:_

_“You know, I’m almost eighteen.” Derek frowns and Stiles winces because… yeah, where the hell had that come from? “I mean… that thing you said, about Kate dreaming about teenagers. But I’m almost a grownup, you know, officially speaking. I'm--yeah, I'm a junior but I have an early birthday so, theoretically, if someone in their twenties wanted to dream about me it wouldn’t be… God, I don’t even know what I’m saying. I’ll shut up now.”_

_Derek swallows, brows furrowing. His eyes go to their clasped hands, and Stiles feels his face heat._

_“You… want Kate to be dreaming about you?”_

_Way for Derek to miss the point in the most frustrating way possible._

_“Dude,_ no _. Not… not Kate. Just… ok, shut up. Forget I said anything.”_

_“Stiles, what are you—”_

_“No, seriously. Derek. Forget it. I ramble when it’s quiet, you know this about me.”_

_Derek searches his face, nods, and then it’s quiet again. This time, Stiles forces his mouth to stay shut._

_“I can’t hear your heartbeat in here,” Derek says after too long a pause. “Or smell you. It makes it hard to…”_

_He trails off, looking away._

_“So you’ll be here in a few hours?”_

_“More like a day.” And Stiles winces as he says it. They’re cutting things painfully close, but they’d been way off course last night, at the outer edge of the triskele. Stiles had almost insisted on driving today, not wanting to sit idle, but everyone could see he was too worn down to be behind a wheel. Lydia is objectively the best driver anyway, skilled at knowing when she can get away with burning rubber and when to slow down to avoid being stopped._

_Derek starts to shift away, and Stiles holds his hand tighter._

_“…Before moonrise tomorrow?”_

_“Definitely before. Way before.”_

_Stiles honestly isn’t sure, but he knows which answer will keep Derek from diving for the nearest sharp object._

_“And if you’re not—” Stiles tightens his grip, cutting Derek off._

_“Hey, I will see you tomorrow. One way or the other, I promise.”_

_Either he’ll be in that dank cellar in the flesh, unchaining Derek’s wrists and helping him to safety, or he’ll be right back here in his head, helping him die for the greater good. Because the goddamn greater good is important._

_Derek nods, jaw clenching nervously, and then he’s leaning forward. Stiles’ throat tightens – shock, anticipation, nerves – but Derek just touches his forehead against Stiles’, his eyes falling shut._

_“You know…  part of me still wasn’t sure. Not until Kate heard you too.”_

_An incredulous laugh huffs out. Derek’s lips are curved into a slight, self-deprecating smile, and Stiles bobs his head just a bit, tapping their foreheads together._

_“That’s ‘cause you’re a stubborn idiot.” Stiles swallows, forces himself to look up because he really, really shouldn’t be staring at Derek’s mouth when it’s about two inches from his own. That way lies a sharp drop off the last ledge of normal, a point of no return. And ‘no return’ feels way too much like goodbye._

_“Probably.” Derek lets out a long breath, and Stiles can feel it against his cheeks; it leaves his lips tingling. “You always surprise me, you know. How… brave you are, what you’re able to do. If someone told me last year how many times that skinny kid with the buzz-cut would save me…”_

_Stiles’ eyes are back on his mouth again, and there’s a pressure, an urge, a_ need, _rising inside of him. …But this feels too much like goodbye too, and he forces himself to step back, dropping Derek's hand, feeling shaky._

_“Yeah, well my streak’s not over yet, Sourwolf. Tomorrow, ok? We’ll have this conversation for real. And you can feel free to start making a list of all the ways I’m perfect and brave and awesome while you wait.”_

_Derek blinks a few times, expression shifting as he fights a nervous tension inside himself. Then he catches Stiles gaze and holds it, an almost challenging look in his eyes._

_“Never been great with words.”_

_Stiles is… well, he’s Stiles. He breaks tension with terrible one liners and tells fisting jokes at inappropriate moments and has a notoriously faulty brain to mouth filter, so it’s really not all that surprising that he jumps on that opening, finds himself grinning filthily and saying “Then you’ll have to come up with another way to thank me.”_

_No, that's not weird at all. What is weird, what’s definitely_ not _expected, is the way Derek’s eyes very pointedly drop to Stiles’ mouth, pause, and then trail down his body in the most deliberately thorough once over he’s ever seen. And he'd seen Aiden check Lydia out. A lot._

_Derek’s been alone with just psycho Kate for a very long time. Stiles is the first person who’s (sort of) touched him in months that hasn’t been trying to freak him out or hurt him. He thinks he’s dying in about twenty-four hours, and Stiles is basically the white knight riding in to save him. All of these are very legitimate explanations for why Derek’s looking at Stiles like he wants to pounce on him, taste every inch of his skin and never let go._

_Still, when Derek’s tongue flicks out over his lips, when he swallows thickly, meets Stiles’ eyes again, and nods, Stiles feels a needy whimper rising up in his throat._

_They’ve both been in hell for the past few months. Maybe they deserve a break. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to just take a few steps forward and—_

The electrical jolt knocks them both awake, the echo of Kate’s voice, laughing: “Come on, sweetheart. One last time before the big—” before the connection breaks.

And Stiles is speeding down a sunset road, Lydia still at the wheel and pushing the car hard. One last night, one last bloodletting, before tomorrow’s ritual. Now it’s just down to how fast they can drive, how strong Kate’s defenses are. The moon rises at seven o’clock tomorrow. Just one last day will decide whether Kate dies, or Derek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha remember when I said this story was going to be Sterek-lite? Now I've got half a chapter of them touching and almost kissing each other.
> 
> Just one or two more chapters on this one, guys! I want to get this done before the start of next season, so please leave some encouragement to keep me writing! :P <3 
> 
> Love you all!


	12. Battlezone

It’s a little after eleven that night when Lydia pulls over, visibly shaking. Her hands have been tense on the wheel for the past half hour, but every attempt to talk to her has been met with pursed lips and a sharply shaken head.

Stiles has been keeping an eye on her, watching her face in the rearview mirror: her slowly jumping jaw, her skin paling in the light of the nearly-full moon. Then all at once her teeth had gritted, lips white, nostrils flaring in a fast, pained gasp, and she’s steering them off the side of the highway.

The second the car stops she’s clawing at her seatbelt, pushing open the door, moving like she’s about to run straight out into traffic. Stiles is moving, shoving his own door open, ready to jump right out after her… but Peter reacts faster, grabbing her arm and tugging her back before she gets a foot on the ground. She falls back against him, struggling and screaming through closed lips.

Scott and Malia both shift beside Stiles, startled awake by the motion of the car or the sound.

“What’s—“

“You’re going to die!” Lydia wrenches against Peter, who’s holding her firmly around the waist now, pinning arms that are doing their best to claw at him. Lydia’s eyes are red, panicked. “So much death in this car... I can’t breathe, I can’t…” Her eyes flit across to the backseat, stopping on Stiles and gasping soundlessly, before sliding to Malia and resting there, wide and wet with unshed tears. “It’s so close, hovering over you like a... like a dark cloud. I can…” She wrenches against Peter again, sharp and violent and hopeless. “I can _feel_ it on your skin. Let _go_ …”

“Peter, let her go.” The older wolf shoots Stiles an incredulous look; Lydia sends a desperately grateful one, still struggling. He finds himself leaning forward between the seats, reaching out to touch her hand. “Lydia. _Lydia,_ promise not to go diving out into traffic, ok?”

She seems startled by his words, shoots a wild glance toward the still-open door. She draws in a slow breath and stops struggling. When she speaks again, she seems steadier.

“I think I would sense my own death coming if there were a risk of that.” But she nods anyway, lifting her chin proudly.

Peter releases her, and she scrambles to the other side of the car so fast Stiles thinks the man looks a little insulted. He’s holding up much better than Malia, though, who’s gone white.

“…Does this mean the ritual’s started?”

And all at once Stiles feels sick too. Scott’s hand moves to clutch his arm; his heart must have done something funny.

Lydia closes her eyes.

“No, it’s still… on its way, it feels like. It coming, _building_. But it’s not here yet.”

That’s more than Lydia can usually sense; definitely an improvement over getting drawn to a location in time to find a corpse. Stiles clears his throat.

“Guess that extra banshee training’s actually paying off.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. She’s still too-pale, still leaning too far away from the right side of the car where Peter and Malia sit, but she looks a little like herself again.

“Right, lucky me.”

.-

She’s too shaken to drive, and Stiles is too jittery to keep still. They switch positions – ah, open road and accelerator, Stiles has missed you – while Scott acts as a snuggly alpha barrier between Lydia and whatever bad Hale vibes the universe is still sending her. They spend the rest of the night driving in silence.

.-

By dawn, Lydia can’t stop shaking, sleeping fitfully and letting out occasional whimpers that sound like choked screams.

At around eight AM Scott hits Stiles on the shoulder; they pull over long enough to switch places, and Lydia latches onto Stiles instantly, grabbing his arm and holding it in a white grip while staring out the window. Stiles tries to talk to her but she just shakes her head, lips thin.

Stiles dozes, but he’s too on edge to really sleep. He thinks they all are; even Peter keeps sending Lydia wary glances, shooting Stiles significant looks that he doesn’t want to think about too much. They seem to be asking if it’s time to give up the cause as lost.

Stiles hasn’t mentioned his agreement with Derek to anyone, but Peter’s known about the risk of dying and dreams for a while, is calculating enough to have figured out the rest on his own. And twisted enough to think it’s a really swell idea.

Or maybe Stiles is the twisted one, willing to risk the lives of who knows how many people for a chance that seems to be dwindling by the second.

.-

It’s around noon when they stop at a rest station to refuel the car, stretch their legs, and get food. Lydia spends about five minutes in the bathroom alone before she’s screaming, glass shattering behind her as she tears her way out into the open air.

The attendant starts muttering something about drugs, about not wanting trouble in broken English, but Stiles is busy focusing on Lydia, who’s pushed past Scott to run straight into his arms. Childhood fantasy fulfilled in the most depressing way possible? Check.

“It’s not going to work, Stiles. You’re not going to get through. We’ll be too late, and you _can’t kill him if he’s conscious_. It’s not going to work _.”_

And then she shudders, squeezing her eyes shut, and some of the tension fades out of her. Message delivered, she slumps against Stiles’ chest, breathing heavily. Stiles looks up at Scott, who’s frowning between them.

“Who are you going to kill?”

“Apparently no one.” Peter’s voice, hard and angry, makes both Stiles and Lydia jump. He turns on the gas station attendant (who apparently knows enough English to understand words like ‘kill’ and has begun backing toward the doors to his small booth and the phone there) and punches him, knocking him out in one easy blow. Malia grabs him before he hits the ground, lowering him gently.

Peter turns to scowl at Stiles.

“Great backup plan, Stiles. Except you forgot one little thing.”

“You were going to kill Derek,” Lydia says into Stiles’ shirt. Scott’s eyes widen.

“Wait, like… like how Kate could have hurt you in her dream?”

Stiles grimaces.

“It was a backup. Derek made me promise… if we couldn’t get here in time… to save the rest of the Hales.”

Scott looks just horrified enough for Stiles to feel a little bit justified about his own hesitation. Peter rolls his eyes.

“Except our brilliant strategists screwed up. They forgot that Derek would need to actually be _asleep_ for this plan to work.”

Crap... _Crap_ , Peter’s completely right. Of course Derek’s not going to be asleep right before the ritual; Kate will be electrocuting and bloodletting and dancing around naked or whatever the hell people do before ancient blood rituals.

“Oh my god…”

Lydia pushes away from Stiles, squeezing his arm reassuringly even though her expression’s as wrecked as his must be.

“It’s ok. You couldn’t just kill him without trying—”

“It’s _not_ ok. He made me promise…” And Stiles realizes in this moment, now when it’s probably impossible, that he really would have done it. He would have gone into Derek’s mind and let him kill himself. Because Derek had asked him too. “Now Malia’s gonna die too. Cora.”

“We don’t know that,” Scott says, his eyes down, seeming unsure. Stiles steps away, feeling sick, not able to look at either Hale. He’d been too slow. He hadn’t thought this through. Hadn’t _wanted_ to think about it too much, and now Derek’s going to be responsible – indirectly responsible, but Stiles knows how little that matters in the end – for more deaths. If there is an afterlife, Stiles knows Derek will be cursing him in it.

Lydia follows Stiles forward, grabbing his hand.

“Listen to me. I refuse to be just a portent of doom. I’m not a fortune teller, and I have these feelings for a reason. So we can _do something_ about them.” He stares at her blankly, and she jerks his arm, shoulders straightening proudly. His banshee queen. There’s a reason he’d spent so much time worshiping her. “Do you hear me, Stiles?”

Her eyes are glittering fiercely, hair gleaming unearthly colors under the bright Mexican sun. If anyone can defy fate, it’s Lydia Martin.

He nods slowly, forcing life back into his numb body.

“So what do we do?”

She sighs.

“First, we get food. We _leave payment_.” She arches a brow at Peter significantly. Then "Y _ou_ drive,” still to Peter. And back to Stiles: “And you sleep. Maybe I got the message early enough that you can still get through to Derek. Scott, you and Malia get on your phones. Get in touch with Deaton, with the Yukimuras, with Christopher Argent. Ask for anything that might be able to block a curse from reaching its intended mark. And I’ll… try to open my mind. Sense what danger we’ll be facing when we get there. If the drive’s easy we should be able to make it to the forest well before moonrise. I’m not going to let my warnings result in another failure, understand? We’re going to do this.”

And the way she says it, Stiles almost believes it.

.-

Despite Scott’s pained expression, Stiles downs another of Peter’s heavy sleeping pills before settling into the backseat. It’s the only way he has half a chance of sleeping. He pushes his doubts aside and focuses his sleepy mind.

He drifts, he dreams. He even dreams of Derek.

_But Derek’s overexposed like the cellar around him, slumped limply against a wall and chained by his bleeding wrists. The blood drains freely out onto the dirt floor._

_He looks up at Stiles’ sharply drawn breath, and when he speaks it sounds weak and ragged._

_“I’m awake.”_

_Stiles crouches in front on him, reaches out as if to touch his cheek. His hand goes right through, draws back to hover over the skin he can’t feel. He’s nothing more than a figment here._

_“I know.”_

_“I can’t fall asleep, Stiles. Not like this.” He shakes his arms futily, winces. “She comes back every ten minutes to make sure I’m still bleeding.”_

_Stiles’ hand drifts down Derek's arm (_ ghosts _over it, ha. He's found a whole new level of meaning to that, hasn't he?) and Derek watches it move. Closes his eyes briefly, like he can feel it. Like he’s trying to._

_“While you’re awake I can’t…”_

Can’t kill you, _he was going to say, but finds his eyes on Derek’s mouth instead. Derek’s eyes drift open again, move from his wrist, Stiles’ hovering hand, to his face. His lips quirk bitterly._

_“I know.”_

_“I’m so sorry.”_

_He is... and he’s not. Derek’s beyond his reach, the ritual’s already started. When the moon rises, Kate will complete it, and the Hales will die._

_But Stiles won’t have to kill him._

_He’s such a coward, but he can’t help feeling a little bit relieved._

_They sit in silence while Kate returns, crouches straight through Stiles, and reopens Derek’s wrists. Derek’s eyes don’t leave Stiles’, and Stiles makes sure to keep his expression calm, strong. He doesn’t let himself wince, even when Derek does._

_Kate leaves, and comes again, and finally Stiles draws in a quiet breath, and starts to talk._

_He talks about school, about stupid childhood adventures with Scott, about his mother. He talks about how brave Lydia’s being, and how Malia had been so excited when she’d learned she had cousins, and how his dad had totally freaked out when he’d heard Stiles shout into his brain, and Stiles really should have called him back but that’s ok because Scott had talked to him while he was sleeping._

_Then he starts in on the plot of_ The Walking Dead _before realizing zombies might not be the best topic for a guy who’s been kidnapped by his zombie-jaguar ex-girlfriend, and segues back into his own life, into Derek’s. Into his-and-Derek’s, which he’d never really thought of as a thing before now, but suddenly he can’t think of anything else._

_“Remember that time you hid out in my bedroom when you were on the run? The Sheriff’s kid’s bedroom. I still can’t decide if that was brilliant or just the stupidest plan ever.”_

_“Oh my god, and then Scott was just passed out and you were standing there with a freaking blowtorch like, melting his arm, and I swear I almost fainted face-first right into it.”_

_“…I missed you, you know. When you and Cora just up and left. It wasn’t the same at home without you.”_

_Derek watches him steadily, and winces at his new cuts, and smiles just the littlest bit when Stiles embellishes a story too much. And, just once, he breathes “Me too.”_

.-

When Stiles wakes up, he’s in a battlezone.

He’s alone in the car, gunshots going off all around. Past that he can make out snarls, the sound of human-shaped things slamming into heavier things.

It’s dark out, but his sleep-adjusted eyes are used to darkness, and it only takes a few seconds for him to make out the shapes of trees outside the car on all sides. They’ve made it to the forest, and the darkness means the moon hasn’t risen yet.

But Kate’s talk about doubling the guard definitely hadn’t been a metaphor.

The people outside the car are moving in blurs – multiple weres, battling each other. Some firing guns like hunters between slashes, and Stiles gets the twisted notion that that’s _exactly_ what they are. A whole pack of supernatural hunters. What the actual hell?

“Scott?” His throat’s dry, the word barely comes out a croak. But one of the closer shadows shifts toward him, and Peter’s voice growls through the half-open window.

“Any chance you killed my nephew and we’re in the clear?”

Of course _Peter_ would be the one to come to him.

“Couldn’t get through.” He clears his throat, and says more loudly, “But that’s good, right? We’re here.”

“If you haven’t noticed, we haven’t exactly made it inside.” Peter growls, raises his arm, and Stiles realizes he’s scavenged a gun from one of his opponents. He fires a few shots, laughing grimly. “Not wolfsbane. They probably didn’t want to risk a misfire infecting one of their own. Plus side of battling your own kind; you have the same weaknesses.”

“Same strengths, too, though,” Stiles says, following his thought train. The bullets Peter’s shooting won’t be doing much to damage their enemies, not unless he lucks into a head or heart shot.

He starts to sit up in the seat, then thinks better of it when another round of gunfire ricochets too close to the car.

Peter glances away from the battle long enough to shoot him a significant glance.

“There are at least eight of them. We’re not getting through any time soon, and I can already feel the moon rising. If you have any heartfelt words you’d like to share with me, now would be the time.”

“I’ve always been pretty clear about how much I hate you,” Stiles says without malice, eyes scanning the dark night like he’d have a chance of seeing the moon break the horizon through the thick trees. It doesn’t matter if it’s visible; the weres will feel it. _Kate_ will feel it.

Any minute now the Hales will be dead.

A piercing scream in the distance leaves him wincing. All the weres are on their knees a second later, clutching their heads, and then there’s the sound of a gunshot – Lydia taking advantage of the distraction to take one of their enemies out.

…Distraction. That’s what they need, a distraction.

Stiles knows they can make it through this. Outnumbered or not, his pack is smart, strong. They’ve got an advantage with Lydia and the weres’ sensitive hearing. They would be able to make it through to Derek… But they won’t be fast enough.

Unless they have a distraction.

“We need more time.”

Peter laughs.

“Lovely notion. Any actual plan to back that up?”

“Yeah, actually.” Chances are it’ll only buy them a minute, but maybe a minute will be enough. It's better than doing nothing. “I’m going to talk to Kate.”

.-

He’s too wound up to fall asleep in a car surrounded by battling, shooting weres. His dad had told him more than once that he had no self-preservation instinct, but apparently he had at least that much. And another pill this soon would as likely kill him as let him sleep.

But he’s been putting something together, without even realizing it, for weeks now.

He’s suddenly grateful that Peter’s decided to draw his portion of the battle over to the car because he doesn’t even seem thrown by Stiles’ plan. He just ducks under a shot - actually, literally dodges a bullet, and Stiles could do so many things with that, but it’ll have to wait because a second later Peter’s wrenching the door open and arching his brows at Stiles, smirking.

“Alright, you need help?”

“Don’t look like you’re planning on punching me,” Stiles snaps, settling back low against the seat and trying to block out the battle sounds and think calm, sleepy thoughts. “Do what you did before.”

“Either method would be equally effective,” the man says, but reaches out to grab Stiles’ ankle nonetheless. As soon as Peter’s hand touches his skin, he starts to feel the tension seep out of him.

“Never knew werewolf pain suckers worked on stress.”

Peter shrugs, ducking low behind the door, black veins creeping up his arm.

“Physical pain, emotional pain… it’s all endorphins if you figure out how to work them. Most don’t.”

The nerves, the general jitteriness, the stress/drugs/wonky sleep schedule headache he’d barely had time to notice before, are all draining out of him just like they had the other times Peter had stepped in and pushed him over that last edge into sleep.

“Don’t screw up,” Peter says lightly. “Or we’re all dead.”

Stiles closes his eyes, and thinks of Kate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was up, then back down because I started feeling like I wanted to change stuff around, and now back up again because I decided I actually like it as is. I know, I'm the cliche writer who hands you a piece and then snatches it away to scribble extra notes in the margins. :P Sorry if you looked at it already.


	13. Discarnate

_The first thing he becomes aware of is Derek’s ragged breathing. The world condensed down to a mass of pressure in his skull, of too-white light and blackened edges, the scent of copper and iron and_ Derek _, the sensation of warm, sticky dampness in one palm, something cool and smooth in the other._

_He’s Kate, and then he’s not, and then he’s in the bright, damp cellar with her and Derek, and Derek’s blood dripping down into the dirt._

_Wherever they are, it must be right at the heart of whatever magic resides in this forest… or maybe the act of draining Derek is more important at this point than a more specific offering. None of the blood is being collected._

_Derek looks the same way he had all afternoon, his eyes (almost pure gold in this too-bright dream light) gazing steadily out past Kate as though she’s not worth the energy it would take to glare at. Kate’s standing, eyes closed, in front of him, her arms crossed and the same long blade as always dangling loosely from one hand._

_Stiles glances around the room and makes a decision. He takes several slow steps back, making for the doorway. Maybe if he makes noises in the hall he can lead Kate off, even draw her outside and into the fray aboveground._

_He freezes as Kate begins to laugh._

_“What’s this,” she sing-songs quietly, sounding every bit the cliché supervillain as she tilts her head idly, cocking an ear. “An uninvited guest? Again?”_

_Quiet as he’d been, she’d heard him. No point in hiding, then._

_“What’s_ this _,” he snaps back. “No twirling moustache to go with that line?” She spins to face him, eyes flashing, and he can’t help stumbling back as she bares too-sharp teeth and snarls._

_She can’t touch him; she can’t hurt him. He recovers quickly._

_“And you couldn’t at least tie Derek down to some train tracks or something? I mean, dank cellar and chains only rates about a six on the clichéd villain scale. Come on, Kate, you can do better.”_

_“You’re brave to be here,” Kate shoots back. Apparently Stiles looks fleshy enough to really pass for “here,” not too-bright like she is to him or see-through or anything, because she’s acting like he’s really in the room with her and not just some half-formed figment. “You obviously have some magic protecting you, letting you slip past my guards, hiding your scent.”_

_“Nah, I just bathe really well.”_

_Derek’s slowly come back to himself during this exchange, eyes sliding to Kate and then out to the general area where Stiles is standing. He narrows his eyes, like that might help him see Stiles, like he’s more than a figment inside Kate’s mind._ _After months of living in Derek’s brain more than anywhere else, it’s strange to be so close and not even exist to him._

_Derek’s chains rattle as he pushes himself slowly, waveringly, to his feet._

_Kate spares him a glance._

_“I guess your boy-toy really_ did _care enough to come die with you. I was really hoping you were wrong on that, Derek.”_

_And with a flick of shining silver, the blade is flying through the air at him._

_Stiles feels the flash of violent intent in Kate the second before she throws, and it’s more deep-rooted survival instinct than anything that has him ducking as the blade comes whirling toward him. He thinks he sees it go through the edge of his incorporeal shoulder, but apparently it’s near enough to a miss that Kate doesn’t notice a problem with his severe lack of bleeding. She snarls as it skates past him to clatter against the far wall._

_Which is really good, actually. As much as he wants to see her face when she finds out he’s Incorporeal Man, the sooner she realizes he’s not really here, the sooner she’ll go back to ignoring him and sacrificing Derek._

_“Stiles!” Derek shouts, voice dry and ragged, and Stiles can't tell if he’s got the presence of mind to be playing along, or if he’s so out of it from blood loss that he’s forgotten Stiles isn’t in any real danger._

_“I’m ok,” he says back, as much to himself as anything. Kate narrows her eyes._

_“For now, little mouse. Let’s see how far you can run.”_

_She stalks forward a step and startles, affronted, when Stiles bursts out laughing._

_“I’m sorry, just… did you just make a cat joke? Like, you’re a werejaguar and you just called me a mouse. Do you have a notebook you write all these villainous wisecracks down in?”_

_She bares her teeth again, hissing, and her face is starting to morph, going midnight blue just like it had in Stiles’ dreams._

_A piercing scream in the distance leaves both Kate and Derek flinching. And Stiles makes a run for the door._

_Kate’s a blur of blue, blonde, and brown leather as she heads him off, stopping in front of the exit and ducking into a crouch like she’s preparing to pounce. Stiles stumbles backward, about 90% honest panic._

_“What did you think you'd be able to accomplish here, kid? Did you really think a little scent masking would be able to save Derek?”_

_Stiles grins. Hearing Lydia a minute back had reminded him how close help is. That there’s a real possibility of winning here, if he just holds on a bit longer._

_“That honestly never crossed my mind.”_

_She leaps, and Stiles falls backward, scrambling out of the way as she hits the ground where he’d just been standing, dust rising around her now almost totally inhuman features._

_Derek’s chains are rattling again, and Stiles spares a heartbeat for the wild hope that he might be able to pull himself free._

_As though he wouldn’t have tried that at any point in the last two weeks._

_Kate’s frowning at him now, as Stiles scrambles backward across the dirt, pushing himself back to his feet. No… not looking at him. The dirt floor._

_She notices everything; he remembers that from her dreams. And the dirt hasn’t moved at all in his wake._

_“I’m really pretty scrawny,” he hedges without thinking, standing his ground as she pushes herself back to her feet, brushing off her jeans and sending more dirt flying out as if to mock Stiles and his very non-corporeal cleanliness._

_Kate’s eyes go to Derek, who’s watching her with rapt attention, arms tensed against his chains, expression carefully blank._

_“Derek,” she says softly, mock-fondly, her features shifting back to human. “Stiles is bleeding; aren’t you worried?”_

_Derek’s jaw jumps, his eyes flitting out blindly across the room but recovering fast, settling back on Kate a second later._

_“No he’s not,” he answers, just as calm. But Kate’s smirking, like he’s still given her exactly what she needs._

_“Are you sure? Because you didn’t even look at him. Almost like he’s not even here.”_

_Stiles swallows; he’d known this wouldn’t last, but he had hoped it would give him a little bit more time than this._

_“I don’t know, Kate," Stile snaps. "Is ‘I’m fighting a figment of my imagination’ really the argument you want to be going with here?”_

_“Not a figment,” Kate’s brow arches thoughtfully. “Just not here.”_

_And then she ducks fast, grabbing a handful of dirt and tossing it in Stiles’ direction. He dances back, but can’t avoid the wide spread of the fine powder, and Kate smirks as it flies straight at his face, his body, and continues right on through._

_He stares down at his chest like dusty tan powder might just appear on his clothes if he wills it hard enough._

_Kate’s laughing again. He really loathes that sound. He scowls up at her._

_“Fine, I might be Kitty Pryde-ing it up a little. All the more reason you should be freaking the fuck out and begging at my feet for mercy, don’t you think?”_

_Her eyes crinkle, dimples coming out, and for a second the expression is so perfectly Allison that he forgets how to breathe._

_“Is that so?” But that tone’s Gerard, all the way through. Stiles sets his jaw and forces a grin._

_“I made it through your little goon army back there, didn’t I?”_

_“_ Stiles _,” Derek grits out at exactly the right moment. “Stop trying to show off.”_

_Stiles wants to look indignant, but can’t help the grin that comes out instead. Derek knows Stiles well enough to react like he’s hearing him even when he’s staring at open air._

_Derek just rolls his eyes._

_“I’m serious. Just shut up and get out of here. This isn’t a safe place for you to be.”_

_He might just be trying to run with the act, or he might be talking about Stiles’ physical body. Which is probably just about a football field away, lying in a car in the middle of a firefight._

_Hopefully no one decides the unconscious guy is worth wasting a bullet on._

_Kate’s glancing between them, brows furrowing like she’s not sure what to believe, like she’s getting frustrated with the whole situation._

_“Moon’s up, boys. At least one of you’s about to die. I don’t really care what happens to the other.”_

_She aims a casual look Stiles’ way, shrugs. And Stiles can’t defend Derek._

_…But maybe he can give him the chance to defend himself._

_“Derek, hang on a sec. I’m getting you out.”_

_(As though Derek could hear him. If Kate’s still buying that act, no reason to let up now. And if she isn't... well, who cares.)_

_He stumbles back a step, turns his back on Kate (every primal instinct screaming at him not to, even though he knows it doesn’t matter) and bolts across the room, toward the place where the length of chain holding Derek is secured._

_If prey runs, the predator will chase._

_Kate’s moving after him a second later, getting three steps closer for every one of his. He doesn’t have to make it far. He just has to play this right._

_He skids to a stop in front of the chain, bending his neck just so and reaching out like he’s about to unlock it. Whether or not Kate believes he’s capable of touching anything, of moving the chain, of freeing Derek, she’s apparently not willing to risk it, because she snarls, clawing straight at his bared neck._

_She goes straight through Stiles, no surprise there, her claws raking the chain violently enough that both she and Derek snarl. Her hand draws back bloody – one long claw having caught in the chain and snapped._

_And the link she hit hangs bent, broken on one side._

_Stiles had hoped it would snap altogether, but apparently Kate had invested in chains strong enough to give a wolf a run for his money. Still, it’s an opening. And Derek knows to take it, immediately straining against the chain. Stiles watches the link slowly stretch for a moment, before turning back to grin at Kate._

_“Kind of like trying to swat an imaginary fly, isn’t it? Damn thing just won’t take a hint and die.”_

_Her eyes are an inhuman shade again, her face just plain inhuman._

_“You think you’re clever? You think that made_ any _difference?”_

_Some, Stiles thinks, as the link finally snaps behind him. Derek has one hand free now. One hand to defend himself against Kate when she comes for him. One hand to grab hers and hold off the knife when she closes in._

_He doesn’t have to beat Kate; he just has to stay alive long enough for the others to get down here._

_The others_ will _make it down here. They’re coming. Any second._

_“Well, I think you’re gonna need a new manicure after this,” he says lightly, and then shrugs, because there’s no point in denying what’s obvious. “And I think you’re going to have a harder time with your not-so-human sacrifice now that he can grab your stabbing arm.”_

_For a second she looks furious, glancing over at Derek. He’s moved away from the bloody dirt where he’s been held for days, loosening the chain on his still-bound arm and giving himself room to maneuver._

_Her jaw ticks. Then she sighs._

_“There’s more than one way to bleed a wolf.”_

_And then she’s reaching under her jacket and drawing out a heavy-looking handgun._

_“I was hoping for a little more ceremony, but it’s really not necessary. The moon’s more than high enough now, Der. Time for your big moment.”_

_Stiles moves without thinking, darting into her path. Her eyes roll._

_“Really? You’ve more than proven you’re just a shadow here.”_

_It’s true, and she seems to be sure of it now. The thing about shadows, though: they make it really hard to see._

_So Stiles grits his teeth and moves in close, staying right in front of her, blocking her view of the far wall, of Derek. She’s shorter than him, narrower; it’s not hard to stand at least somewhat in her way… And it still feels like the most futile thing he’s ever done._

_Kate smirks, staring straight at him, and fires four times, shifting her aim slightly each time._

_As the third bullet fires, Derek cries out._

_He’s crumpling as Stiles turns, knees hitting the dirt hard, sending up a fresh cloud of dust. His bare abs are blooming red on the right side, his free hand going to clutch at the wound dazedly._

_“No, no no…_ Derek _!_ _”_

_He forgets Kate, forgets that he’s not really there. He’s at Derek’s side, falling his knees next to him, scrambling toward his left side, looking desperately for an exit wound._

_There’s no goddamn exit wound._

_“Derek! Derek hold on, ok?”_

_No exit wound is bad. That means it didn’t go straight through. It's lodged against something, or bounced around inside him, hitting who knows how many organs, doing who knows how much damage._

_The dirt beneath Derek is slick with blood._

_“Fuck… Derek, you’re ok. It’s ok, you’re ok, you’re gonna be fine.”_

_Derek’s eyes are hazy. He wobbles on his knees, slumps back and hits the wall, sliding down it, legs splayed out haphazardly like he’s forgotten they’re there. His eyes go to Kate, then drift, blinking hard._

_“Derek, it’s ok. Remember when you got shot with wolfsbane? That was way worse than this, way worse, and I didn’t even have to chop off your arm. Remember? And when we all thought you got killed by Peter? You bounced right back from that. I mean… more or less. This is nothing, ok? You’re ok.”_

_He barely knows what he’s saying, and it doesn’t matter anyway because Derek can’t even hear him, damn it… And Derek starts coughing. Deep, wracking coughs that make his whole body jerk, and when his body jerks he just coughs harder. His lips are too-red, blood spilling from his mouth, dripping down his chin... he’s_ coughing blood. _He’s coughing up blood and,_ god _, that means something serious was punctured._

_There’s a soft tutting sound from behind him._

_“You really can’t see him, can you, Der? You know, I think I can actually_ feel _the sadness seeping out of him. His little heart’s breaking for the big, bad wolf.”_

_Part of Stiles wants to snap at her, but what would be the point? He lifts a hand, ghosting it over Derek’s face, focusing on Derek, trying to make him hear him, feel him, the way he’d done that night in the church._

_“I’m sorry… Damn it, Derek. I should’ve let you do it when you said. It’s not supposed to be like this. You’re supposed to say goodbye.”_

_Kate shifts forward, and Stiles feels himself straightening like he has any chance of acting as a barrier between her and Derek. Like he hasn’t already failed miserably on that count._

_“How sweet. He’s asking you to say goodbye, Derek.”_

_Derek’s jaw clenches. His eyes flit out across Stiles’ face, across the empty air beside it. He draws in a wet breath, coughs brokenly, growls: “_ Go _, Stiles. When I… you’ll lose Peter, lose Malia. Not enough left to… Get Scott, Lydia and go.”_

_Kate’s aiming the gun again, lifting it straight over Stiles’ shoulder. The barrel inches from Derek’s forehead._

_And then her arm jolts violently, and Stiles spins to see Scott holding Kate by the nape, lifting her so she hangs suspended in the air, fighting fruitlessly for freedom with no leverage._

_Derek jerks forward, chain clanging violently as he shoves away from the wall, overbalances, and starts to slump into the bloody dirt._

_“No! Stiles is still connected... Stiles,_ wake up _!”_

_And then Peter’s there, grabbing Kate when Scott’s grip loosens in confusion. And Kate’s neck twists, and Stiles feels more pain than anything before in his life, and then—_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...What? Is that not a good ending?
> 
> Just kidding! I have the next chapter almost all written, but this moment really called for a chapter break. Leave lovely reviews about what a horrible person I am, and the last bit will be up soon, I promise. <3


	14. Open

Stiles dreams.

_He drifts through nightmares of blood, of dusty caverns, of body-strewn camps and ancient roots, rich with power._

_He dreams of his own corpse: bloated, blue, and drifting in deep water._

_He dreams of his friends burning in blackened houses, cut to pieces by claws, long swords and teeth._

_And he dreams of Derek._

_They’re floating in an endless ocean. The whole world’s the ocean; Derek’s wide, soft mattress the only surface on it._

_Stiles is on his back, arms folded behind his head, staring up at the sky. It’s always sunny here, he knows instinctively. He isn’t sure such a thing as a moon exists._

_Derek’s sitting, one knee up, an arm looped loosely around it. He’s smiling at Stiles softly, but his eyes are damp and pained._

_“Why are you sad?” Stiles breathes, and it feels like the sound carries out through the waves, echoing all the way around their empty world._

_Derek drops his gaze._

_“This reminds me of the dreams I had with you, when you were real.”_

_“I am real." The words sweep over Stiles like he isn’t the one saying them. Like they mean something deeper than what they are on the surface. Derek looks up again, still smiling, still looking like it hurts him but he can’t quite bring himself to stop anyway._

_“You always said that.”_

_“And it was always true.” He lifts his hand, wiggling six fingers proudly. Derek reaches out, stopping just short of touching them._

_“I think I miss you.” He pauses, fingers flexing, clenching, dropping back to his lap. “My mind’s too quiet without you here.”_

_Stiles glances out at the endless ocean, feels a smile curving over his lips. A whole world of water…_

_“…But you’re not jumping in.”_

_Derek finally reaches out, runs light fingers over Stiles’ forehead, brushing aside the too-long hair and lingering._

_“You died saving me. It would be pretty selfish to waste that now.”_

_.-_

_They’re sitting on top of a tall building overlooking the greatest city on earth. Stiles is sitting right on the edge, legs waving and bouncing as they dangle out over a hundred foot drop. Derek’s standing a little further back, off to the side, his arms crossed._

_“They say the equipment registered brain activity last night.”_

_Stiles, absorbed with the view – the sharp drop and how easy it would be to fall – barely follows Derek’s words. The tight timbre of his tone drags his attention back, though. He looks to Derek, head tilting questioningly, like a wolf. He smiles at the thought, but Derek’s eyes aren’t on him._

_“It was around the same time I was sleeping, Stiles. While I dreamed of you.”_

_A breeze brushes through Stiles’ hair. He smiles, eyes drifting closed, and he feels his body start to sway with it, like a current._

_Derek’s hand clamps down on his shoulder. When he opens his eyes, Derek’s are pained, hopeful, searching._

_“_ Is _it you? Really?”_

_.-_

_They’re in a hospital. It’s also a young boy’s bedroom. There’s a basketball net on the back of the door, picture books scattered around the floor like notes on Stiles’ desk the day before a final._

_In fact, nothing about the place looks like a hospital room, but Stiles knows that it is. He thinks he can hear, distantly, the high, even beeping of a heart monitor._

_There’s a little boy curled up on the bed, eyes closed, his damp, brown hair spiking out over his forehead. He’s clutching a large black stuffed wolf with no hint of irony, and there are uneven smudges around its eyes; it looks like he might’ve used magic marker to try and color them blue._

_“Stiles,” the boy whimpers. His eyes drift open, honey-brown, sleepy and far too sad. “The monsters are gone. When are you coming home?”_

_.-_

Stiles drifts, and dreams, and remembers his neck snapping.

And for a while there’s darkness again.

.-

_“The doctors all say it’s machine error,” Derek is telling him. “They’re saying it happens so rarely, so sporadically, that it can’t be anything else.” He stops, smirks bitterly. “I can’t exactly tell them your brain’s only active when you’re dreaming with me.”_

_They’re drifting in a wide lake. In the distance, Stiles can see the shore._

_“Derek, what are you talking about?”_

_“Your mind was connected to Kate’s when she died. Your brain shut down, Stiles. You’re not even breathing on your own. You felt like you died, and your mind just… stopped.”_

_“Except here.”_

_“Except here,” Derek says, like he’s not quite sure. Stiles reaches out, fumbles with Derek’s hand (too many fingers) and clasps them together._

_“I’m here.”_

_Derek looks away, his voice lying:_

_“…I know.”_

_Stiles draws in a breath, savors the feel of it in his lungs, and watches the distant shore as they bob through the slowly drifting current. Then he wiggles Derek’s hand, smiles._

_“Alright, so talk to me, Derek. How many days has it been?”_

_Derek puts a second hand over Stiles’, tracing the skin gently._

_“Eleven days.”_

_.-_

_“Why is it always you?” Stiles asks. They’re in the middle of the lacrosse field, staring at the long distance between them and the distant goal. “I mean… Scott, my dad, Lydia, they all sleep too, right? My mind could go out into anyone’s, even Kate’s. But right now it’s only finding you.”_

_Derek shrugs, rolling the long stick between his hands idly. He seems uncomfortable with it, or maybe with the question._

_“I was in the hospital for the first few days after we got back to Beacon Hills, in a room right near yours.”_

_As if they’d ever needed to be physically close for him to dreamwalk before._

_“_ You _stayed in a hospital?”_

_“Mrs. McCall insisted, even though the wounds were healing on their own.” He winces. “Slowly, but healing.” He clears his throat, toes the grass with his shoe. “She said on top of everything I was severely dehydrated. Emaciated.”_

_Stiles grimaces, taking the stick from Derek and then just staring at it. He’d only been able to make out the highlights, the edges, of Derek back in that cellar, but what he’d been able to see had been mostly ribs, gaunt cheeks, shaking limbs._

_“That was probably smart.”_

_Derek snorts, shoving his hands into his jacket and eyeing the sunlit sky with what looks like distrust._

_“She referred me for a psych consult. Something about survivor counseling.”_

_“…Did you talk at all?”_

_Derek looks away, a clear and silent no. Stiles steps around him to catch his eye, noticing as he moves that the dimensions of the lacrosse field are off. It looks more like a soccer field; the goal lines square instead of rounded. As if the dreamer isn't all that familiar with the game._

_“This is your dream,” Stiles remembers suddenly. But then, “Why are you dreaming of lacrosse?”_

_Derek’s silent for a long time, unmoving as too-green grass sways around them. Then his eyes fall to the stick in Stiles’ hands, soft and sad._

Oh.

_“…I think that psych consult would be good for you.”_

_Derek’s only comfort shouldn’t have to be a dream._

_.-_

_They’re drifting along a lazy river. Stiles’ head is resting on Derek’s knee; Derek’s hand is running idly through his hair._

_Have they been drifting here for seconds or hours? Days?_

_“I hated not being able to feel you,” Stiles finds himself saying. “When I was talking to you that last day. When you were just watching me, listening to me ramble about anything that floated through my head. All I wanted was to hold your hand or hug you, or…” He trails off, looking away._

_Derek’s hand has slipped to trail across his cheek._

_“I… hated not being able to see you. When I thought I was dying, the fact that Kate could see you and I couldn’t…”_

_Stiles tilts his head, lips drifting across Derek’s knuckles. It feels easy, natural: of course._

_But Derek’s breath hitches. His hand drops away._

_Stiles sighs, nestling his head deeper against Derek’s knee, his eyes on the passing water._

_“How many days has it been?”_

_Derek takes a few seconds, and when he answers his voice is steady._

_“Twenty-one.”_

_.-_

_“I think maybe I want to kiss you.”_

_Derek’s standing there in his bedroom when Stiles walks in, too pale and almost clean-shaven, dressed in that slightly oversized, worn leather jacket he’d shielded himself in last spring. His hands are shoved in the pockets like he’s not sure what to do with them, but his eyes are on Stiles, defensive and fierce. Daring Stiles to laugh at him._

_No wonder he’d summoned up last spring’s skin for this._

_Stiles just pushes his door closed and leans slowly back against it. Mirroring a pose he’s been thinking-without-thinking about since he first felt Derek pin him here. Derek’s eyes flash hot, and Stiles knows this feeling isn’t anything new for him either._

_That gives him the courage to lift his chin, grinning, eyes raking a scalding path down Derek as well. God, why had it taken all this, almost dying, months apart, to let him understand what he already knew?_

_“Go right ahead then, Prince Charming. See if you can wake me up.”_

_Derek startles and looks down, the tips of his ears flushing. And that’s_ his _Derek, not last year Derek. The Derek who wears soft Henleys with thumb holes and believes in second chances and teamwork, and lets Stiles run hands down his arms and his neck, at least here in their dreams where it's safe. When he looks back up, he’s grinning lightly, challengingly._

_“How about you wake up first, and then I’ll kiss you.”_

_Stiles wants it now, doesn’t want to hold out for later-possibly-never._

_The doctors have declared him brain dead. He is hooked up to machines that are helping him breathe._

_He remembers his neck snapping—_

Darkness.

And then Der _ek’s hands are on him, holding tight as the pain surges over him in an endless wave, pain like nothing anyone's ever felt and survived. It tries to drag him under but Derek’s holding his nape, clutching his waist. Hugging him._

_The wave recedes, and Stiles finds himself clutching Derek back. Clutching onto his sentience. His life._

_He won’t slip down into the deep water, won't drown. Derek’s holding him at the surface._

_He finds himself laughing into Derek’s neck, pulling back slowly and meeting Derek’s panicked gaze, grinning._

_“Yeah, that sounds good, actually. I'm gonna wake up, and then you can kiss the hell out of me. Not big on the whole somnophilia thing anyway.”_

_.-_

_They’re sitting on the grass outside the Hale house, but it takes Stiles a few seconds to realize it. The structure of the building is a bit different from what he remembers, and the siding shifts subtly in hue and composition, like it’s not quite real in Derek’s mind._

_Derek sees Stiles squinting at it and looks down, plucking too-long blades of grass idly._

_“Mentioned to the therapist how I keep coming back here. He said maybe it’s time to rebuild so... I'm thinking about it.”_

_It’s the first time since the lacrosse field that he’s mentioned therapy. Stiles’ chest feels tight – proud and relieved and painfully sad. It’s good that Derek’s starting to wake himself up, pull out of this dream world they’re not-quite living in. It is._

_Derek’s shoulder brushes his, just barely._

_“They took you off the respirator yesterday. Said they’ve never seen anything like it. Like you just… found the will to live.”_

_Stiles turns to stare at Derek. He’s determinedly watching the walls of his imaginary house, like he’s trying to pretend it doesn’t matter. Like he doesn’t want to dare risk assuming anything. Stiles shifts, bumping their shoulders pointedly._

_“Or something’s leading me back.”_

_Derek’s ears are flushed pink again (and god, why hasn't Stiles been devoting his life to figuring out ways to make the guy do that?) and he turns away, jaw tightening like his own cuteness infuriates him._

_And then…_

_“This_ is _you, right?”_

_The giddy thrill recedes; Stiles feels a heavy weight settle in his stomach._

_“Derek, I thought we’d settled this. Like, months ago.”_

_“No, I… I know it was really you before, when I was…” Captured. Kidnapped, being tortured and set up for a ritualistic sacrifice. “Since then. Since the hospital. Since you said you want to…” He growls, low and frustrated, still looking nowhere near Stiles. “It_ is _you?”_

_Stiles reaches out, touches Derek’s cheek. Nudges his face – reluctant, a bit resistant – until their eyes meet._

_“I’m going to kiss you the minute I wake up, Wolfman.”_

_Derek sighs, eyes falling to Stiles’ mouth._

_“I think maybe I’ll believe it when it happens.”_

_And Stiles realizes why Derek doesn’t want to kiss him here in the dreamscape. It’s one thing being like this, leaning against each other, seeking comfort, a respite from their loneliness. But no matter how much they talk about it ahead of time, the act of kissing will be pushing them into a new place. Will change their relationship irrevocably._

_Derek needs to make sure he’s not slipping into that new place alone._

_.-_

_They’re at the pool, lying on Derek’s mattress, drifting aimlessly with some unknown current. Derek’s head is on Stiles’ knee, Stiles gazing off toward the tiled floor._

_And Stiles is standing at the edge of the pool, watching the cushioned raft carry its two passengers. There’s a fishing pole in his hand, rough and makeshift – a long stick and a rope with a large hook tied at the end. It reminds him of something he’d seen once in New York._

_Their eyes meet across the water – brown and brown, thoughtful and fierce, and after a few quiet seconds, Stiles flicks the pole and lets the hook fly. It sinks straight into the mattress, and Stiles-in-the-boat grabs the rope for good measure. Derek jolts at the impact and sits up slowly, staring between them with parted lips and startled eyes._

_Stiles-on-the-shore smiles, and starts reeling them in._

_.-_

_He’s in a hospital, and Stiles is blinking his eyes open, and everything is too-bright edges and dark shadow. His head feels heavy, and there are things touching him and hooked up to him, and the not-so-steady beating of a heart monitor._

_He stares up at the blank white ceiling as the too-bright edges become bright, whole objects._

_Become…_

Real.

It’s real this time. He’s real.

He isn’t sure how long he lies there before there’s a movement in the doorway. A sharply drawn breath and then a voice, faint and gruff.

“It actually… You’re awake.”

He turns his heavy head toward the doorway, smiles lazily.

“Are you sure?”

He sounds awful, throat dry and cracking. But Derek just swallows, offers a tentative smile, and holds up a hand, almost casually, like a wave. Stiles echoes the gesture.

Five fingers a piece.

Derek’s still too pale, a little gaunt, and there are bags under his eyes from too little sleep. (Or too much.) But he's real and alive and  _here._

Stiles coughs and Derek moves into the room, grabbing a bottle of water from the bedside table, twisting it open and touching it to his lips. He drinks greedily… or tries to, but Derek only allows him a few sips before putting it back on the small table.

Stiles thinks distantly they should be calling a nurse or something… but he really doesn’t care.

He tries to brush a hand across Derek’s cheek – he looks tense, a little bit blank, the way he does when he’s awake and nervous and trying to shut out the world – but Stiles’ arm feels weak and shaky and he can’t quite lift it high enough. He settles for dropping his hand to Derek’s and just brushing their fingers together instead. Derek still seems startled at the contact.

“Was it really you?” Stiles asks, because even though he knows it was, of _course_ it was, it’s suddenly hitting him hard that he and Derek haven’t actually seen each other, real and in person and _conscious_ , since before all this started. And Stiles is in a hospital. For all he knows, he’d just tripped and bumped his head the wrong way, and the past two (three, now?) months have all been a crazy coma dream. Maybe he’d never woken up after the Nogitsune, or maybe—

But Derek's lips part, eyes going wide and fingers twisting to catch Stiles’ own, and that’s every bit as much an answer as his small, deliberate nod.

Stiles smiles.

“Well then. _Ta da_ , rescue accomplished. Safe and sound from Kate’s clutches. Evil plan thwarted, Hales alive and accounted for. What did I tell you?”

Derek’s free hand goes to brush back Stiles’ definitely too-long hair, his eyes rolling.

“I’d have preferred it going off without anyone being declared brain-dead.”

“Picky picky.”

Derek’s lips quirk, just a little, and then he’s starting to step away.

“I should call a—”

“Hey,” Stiles’ fingers loop more firmly around Derek’s (five and five fingers; he hadn’t realized how much better it would feel this way). “We had a deal. I think you owe me, Prince Charming.”

Derek stares for a second, wide-eyed. Then he snorts.

“You woke yourself up.”

Stiles laughs, then presses his lips together, mock-frowning.

“So… you think I should kiss myself? Because I don’t know, man, whatever turns you on, but I think it might be a little awkwmph—”

Derek’s leaned in, finger pressed firmly against Stiles’ lips as he scans his face with an intense gaze. Stiles holds still and lets him look, as the finger traces across his bottom lip for a few extra seconds before trailing away. As Derek tenses, jaw clenching, looking like he’s fighting the urge to bolt. As his forehead drifts down to rest against Stiles’, his eyes sliding closed, breaths dragging in deeply.

Finally, when he’s pretty sure it’s not going to spook him, Stiles murmurs, “You don’t have to. I mean, we don’t have to…”

“I want to,” Derek says back, voice tight. “Just… hold on.”

“Ok.”

And it’s actually its own kind of awesome, lying here like this, fingers clasped, Derek’s real, actual body touching his. Practically _feeling_ Derek’s nerves vibrating because he wants this enough to try it even after all the ways he’s been screwed over in the love department.

“Ok,” Derek echoes finally, eyes fluttering open. And then, somehow, they’re kissing.

It’s soft and sweet and gentle for all of about half a second before Stiles feels something rise up in him that escapes as a moan, and Derek opens his mouth and Stiles licks into it. (…And Stiles spares a second to hope desperately that someone’s bothered to brush his teeth here and there while he was unconscious, because Derek tastes _amazing_ and feels even better, and it would suck if he tastes like a month’s worth of morning breath right now.)

Derek makes a noise, a noise like “I can’t believe this is actually happening, can you believe this is actually happening? And please _god_ Stiles do that thing with your tongue again.”…Or at least, that’s how Stiles interprets it, and when he brushes his tongue against Derek’s a second time Derek groans, so that was probably about right. He shifts to cup the back of Stiles’ head, pulling him up off the bed just a little to fit their mouths at a better angle.

Stiles is dead tired, weak-limbed and a little dizzy, and the kiss is still sending sparks through him. It might be the best thing he’s ever felt outside of some _really_ fantastic fantasies (that he’s willing to bet Derek’s one hundred percent capable of exceeding when they get to that. And they are so, _so_ getting to that. Sooner than later, if Stiles has any say.) He feels his fingers shifting on the hand still clasped in Derek’s, twitching out _pinky, ring, middle, index, thumb, that’s five_ , a well-worn instinct it’ll probably take months for him to shake. He’s clutching Derek’s back with his other hand, trying to lift himself up - wires and machinery be damned - to just press their chests together, get as close as possible and really _feel_ it because Derek’s here, Derek’s alive, and Stiles is awake after what feels like decades and feels like seconds and feels like a muddled dream.

Somehow, despite everything, they’ve made it here.

There’s a wild beeping somewhere in the distance, and pounding feet, a panicked voice calling “Code… oh. _Oh_. Cancel that.” And Derek’s breaking away, lips a little swollen, cheeks flushed, holding Stiles' eyes for a long moment before releasing his hand and falling back a step, looking down. And Melissa McCall’s standing in the doorway, wearing about the same expression Stiles thinks his dad would have if he were standing there right now – open shock and discomfort bleeding quickly into relief.

“ _Stiles_ , you’re… you...” She moves forward in a burst, leaning past Derek and clutching Stiles' cheeks, kissing his forehead and beaming. “I have to call your father. And Scott, and…” breaking off, turning to Derek, “and _you_ , don’t do things that’ll kick his heartrate up like that. The last thing we need is him passing out when he's just woken up. I need to call in the neurologists, we’ll need to run tests and make sure you’re stable... I know this was magically induced, Stiles, but we’re still doing tests and you’re going to sit quietly through them.”

Stiles grins past her, only half absorbing the words. Derek’s leaning back against a wall, eyes on Stiles. His arms are crossed, the fingers of his right hand tapping out a familiar path from thumb to pinky and starting again.

Stiles' world has been a mess of nightmares these past months; Derek has lived through too many of his own. It’ll take a while for both of them to accept all this - peace, victory, _happiness_ \- without constantly checking if it's just an illusion. But they can help each other with that, and as Derek gets to his pinky and starts off a new round, Stiles parts his lips and mouths silently with his movements: _one, two, three, four, five._

Derek's lips tilt, just a little, like a shared secret. His fingers still.

And then Mrs. McCall, in full nurse mode, is ushering him out.

"Yes, I _know_ , Derek, but about a dozen different doctors are going to insist on looking at him, and after that he really needs rest for a while. Going from zero to making out in the hospital bed is not going to do good things for his heart. ...Or his father’s.”

Derek’s allowing her to herd him out, looking slightly abashed. Stiles shifts on the bed.

“Wait, hold on.” They both pause to look at him. “Any chance I could be under sedation for any of these zillion scans?”

Melissa’s brows furrow.

“Well... potentially. I mean, I didn’t think you’d want to after--”

"Awesome." She breaks off as Stiles grins, his gaze sliding past her to Derek. “So… I’ll see you soon then?”

Derek catches his gaze, smiles slowly.

“A nap sounds perfect.”

.-

Stiles dreams of Derek.

And sometimes, on the really good nights, Derek dreams of Stiles too.

But the best dream, they'd agree, is the one they share with their eyes open.

_One, two, three, four, five._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all for this one. Thank you so much, lovely readers, for being patient with me on this and all my stories, and for leaving reviews and encouragement, and calling me horrible when I needed you to. :P
> 
> If you have a Tumblr, come chat with me on [MINE](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com). I love having people with to ramble about Sterek or the show in general or other randomness. Or send me drabble prompts [HERE](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com/ask) <3

**Author's Note:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com)


End file.
